


Son of a Gun

by somedaysomewhere



Category: X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Drug Dealing, Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, M/M, Mafia AU, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-22 20:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedaysomewhere/pseuds/somedaysomewhere
Summary: In their world, love means a willingness to be ruined. The question is: are they ready?
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Han Seungwoo, Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Han Seungwoo/Kim Wooseok | Wooshin, Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Kim Wooseok | Wooshin, Han Seungwoo/Kim Wooseok | Wooshin
Comments: 41
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Told myself that I’m moving on from this genre but here we are.  
> Inspired by [this](https://twitter.com/stan2seung/status/1235782171715043329?s=20)
> 
> If you think I forgot any tag, please tell me in the comments! Thank you :)

The warehouse is grimy and decrepit, its stench enough motivation for Wooseok to finish the job quickly. He hides behind a rusty barrel to reload his Glock, on lookout for the smallest of movements. There’s only one person left. The lightbulb flickers, causing his vision to oscillate between visibility and darkness. 

When he hears footsteps, he knows it’s about to end.

He sprints to his far right, alternately firing and ducking until he reaches a stack of boxes. They’re empty and unusable for defense, but he doesn’t mind, not when it places him six feet away from his target. The other’s momentary shock presents him with an opportunity.

Wooseok catches it. And so, he clicks.

There are millions of ways to kill. He is at least aware of twenty, but guns will be his forever favorite. His brain registers the sound of gunshots as background music, almost lost to his conscious awareness; not surprising with how accustomed he is to it. 

He crouches, observing what’s lying in front of him. The man has some life left and he uses it to speak. “You’re the coldest man I’ve ever met,” he rasps before becoming still. If being cold means having no remorse, then Wooseok wholeheartedly agrees.

He peels the fingers off his left shoulder. Despite the owner being dead, its grip remains firm. For a second, he entertains the idea of cutting the entire hand off. However, he contains his temper, noting that his boss dislikes unnecessary actions.

If Cho Seungyoun tells you to shoot, you pull the trigger. If his order is to break every single bone of a target’s body, you shatter all 206 of them. As the right hand of a ruthless mafia leader, Wooseok is nothing but obedient, primed for whatever his role entails.

He rises to his feet. The floor is half crimson from the amount of carnage today’s job had spilled. Bodies are scattered all over the room, all expired and stiff. He stamps on them, not minding the blood staining his brand new leather shoes.

It’s past midnight when he arrives at the headquarters. The hallway is quiet, a sign that most members are already sleeping. The Glock rests on his hips, shiny and as merciless as he is. 

He returns to a bouquet of tulips waiting on his bed. The attached card bears no name. Instead, two faces are drawn: one happy in yellow and one sad in red. Wooseok pictures a boy and his sturdy wrist, recalling how they anchored him in times of pleasure and need.

His throat tightens, still afraid of something so sweeping. Finding a love like this always ruins him. Then again, he is ready.

  
  
  
  


There are three constants in Seungyoun’s life: money, brutality and men who will do anything for him. This paints him as formidable, and his presence is usually enough for people to be wary. It suits him just fine. In his world, intimidation goes a long way, and proximity only causes unwanted repercussions.

He starts the day with a stroll on the mansion’s grounds, meandering by its olympic size pools and perfectly manicured gardens. The soft glow from the morning sun makes the flowers even lovelier, and he ends up picking a few, carefully holding the stems in his grasp. Beautiful things have this effect on him—the need to touch, to be close, for them to be within his reach.

A stone path guides him through the greenery. Along the way, he enjoys the foliage he sees, including a tree that’s been standing for thirty years. He continues to the sound of birds chirping and a while later, he finally arrives at the innermost part of the garden; his destination, the gazebo, coming into vision. Made of glass, it provides a view of the grand fountain and surrounding topiary. This is where he goes when he seeks peace.

Someone is inside. Seungyoun tries his best to be stealthy, his feet at their lightest. The person stays turned away from him, indicating that he hasn’t been found out yet. He moves to walk further, but before he can take another step, a sentence is hanged in the air.

“You’re late.” _Busted._ No wonder. After all, Kim Wooseok is his best killer.

He hands him a mix of marigolds and pansies. Ever since Wooseok professed his partiality to flowers, Seungyoun made it a point to bring one as often as possible. He won’t admit it to anyone else, but this boy is the reason why the garden is full of blooms.

“These are pretty,” gushes Wooseok, stroking a petal delicately. “But you’re still late. I waited for an hour.”

“I slept in,” Seungyoun confesses, contrite. “I had a phone meeting last night and it was almost dawn when we finished.” There was an urgent matter to address, and he’s still reeling from the headache it left.

“Hn. You’re here now anyway,” replies Wooseok, setting the flowers aside and opening his arms for an embrace.

Seungyoun relents. Their bodies are flush against each other, and it feels like his heart is about to melt. This is their routine—to spend mornings together whether outdoors or in bed. Closeness is something he avoids, but this is worth cherishing. “What’s the agenda for today?,” he asks after a minute of silence.

“You have three applicants to screen. They passed the initial evaluation and are up for a one-on-one.”

“Judge them for me.”

At this, Wooseok pulls away slightly, his voice higher than usual. “Huh?”

“I said, screen them for me.”

“Why me? You’re the boss.”

“Because you’ve been here long enough to be familiar with how we operate,” Seungyoun loftily answers, watching the leaves sway to the breeze. “You’ve been with me long enough to be familiar with my preferences.”

Wooseok rolls his eyes. “Or, you’re just lazy.”

“Maybe,” Seungyoun shrugs. “But I also trust you.” He raises a finger and sinks it into Wooseok’s cheek. From an outsider’s perspective, they look like a normal couple, endearing and sweet.

As long as their concealed weapons aren’t revealed, that is.

“Pulling the trust card so I can’t answer, huh,” Wooseok points out. “If you’re sure then,” he trails, still sounding hesitant.

Seungyoun holds one of Wooseok’s hands, gently squeezing before interlocking it with his. “What’s there to doubt? You’re good. Whatever I ask of you, you do it well.”

Shadows dance on their skin, a bit of sunlight peeking through the gaps between the trees. These moments give him a sense of normalcy; somehow, they’re a temporary reprieve. Beautiful things have this effect on him—out of habit, Seungyoun clings on to them, even though he knows they are fleeting.

  
  
  
  


Han Seungwoo enters the mansion at exactly 12:24 in the afternoon, duffel bag in hand and anxiety flowing through his veins. He’s still confused as to how he got accepted, but here he is, waiting to be greeted by the leader personally.

He studies the room. The principal lounge area has two twenty-foot crushed velvet sofas and a center table topped with marble sculptures. An ornate bar sits at the corner, stocked with cognacs and whiskeys. A crystal chandelier completes the picture of luxury. Everything is extravagant. He doesn’t expect anything less. 

“Han Seungwoo?,” a voice calls, breaking his reverie.

“Yes, it’s me.” He lays his bag on the carpeted floor before standing, his chin lifted and back ramrod straight. The nervousness won’t leave him, but he tries to steady his voice at least.

“Welcome to Ganymede. I’m Cho Seungyoun.” A hand is offered to him, and he quickly takes it, awed by its softness and how young the leader is.

Cho Seungyoun, who also goes by Woodz, is a distinguished name in the underground, largely due to helming Ganymede, one of the most influential mafia organizations in Seoul. Ganymede was on the brink of downfall when its former head retired, and many had thought it would merge with powerful groups to stay afloat. However, he was able to restore its former glory. It is a known fact these days that its current members are some of the best in the city.

With these achievements, Seungwoo assumed the leader to be of middle age or older. Apparently, he’s wrong. Seungyoun even looks younger than him.

“At your service,” Seungwoo says, bowing deeply.

“This is Kim Wooseok. You’ve already met, I believe,” Seungyoun introduces, his finger pointing to a person behind him. Wooseok bends upon hearing his name, a small smile of recognition on his lips.

“Yes,” Seungwoo answers, straightening his posture. “He’s the one who interviewed me.” 

Seungyoun nods, his dangling earrings mimicking the action. “He will show you around and brief you regarding house rules. But that will be for later. I’d like to give you more time to adjust but unfortunately, I’m assigning you to a mission this early.” 

“It’s okay. It’s what I’m here for.” Seungwoo visualizes his Sig, long unused and ready for dispatch. It’s been a while since his last contract kill, and the thought of it lends him a thrill. 

“The target is a businessman in Gangnam. Here is his profile, plus additional details that may be valuable,” Seungyoun explains, presenting a folder labelled T-116. “The client wants him dead.”

“Is there a preferred method?” Seungwoo leafs through the pages. Lee Sangmin, 55, COO of R Corporation. Five children from two different women. Plays tennis and golf for leisure. Involved in illegal drugs.

“The client didn’t specify so I guess you’re free to move according to your wishes. Just a warning though—don’t be flashy. Terminate the man, but no theatrics,” Seungyoun warns, looking directly at him.

His gaze is sharp, a reminder that he isn’t somebody to be trifled with. Seungwoo only nods in response, returning his attention to the file on hand.

“The time frame is within the week, but the sooner it’s done, the better. I’m pairing you with Wooseok, again. His purpose is to see how you work so I can match you to the right jobs next time.” Seungyoun checks his watch, glinting under the overhead light. “I have to leave,” he announces. 

Seungwoo bows once again. “You can count on me,” he assures. “I’ll do everything I can.” 

“Enthusiastic,” Seungyoun praises, his bright grin a total contrast from earlier. “I like you already.”

Something in him stirs. He gets it now—what makes a leader different from others. Seungyoun is both charming and deadly, and Seungwoo thinks it won’t be long until he is under his spell, all willing and susceptive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seungwoo perches near the window, resting his body against the glass. He spots Seungyoun and Wooseok holding hands, and even from afar, he can see their fascination.
> 
> It’s a shame he has to interfere.

The Ferrari slinks through the red light district, its shiny black exterior reflecting the dilapidated state of the buildings. Paper lanterns line the bar entrances, colorful and moving with the wind. Three types of people roam the streets: men in suits, women in heels and the occasional pimps. It’s after work hours, and for the depraved, this is the time to indulge in worldly thrills.

Wooseok refers to the directions on the GPS screen. He makes a sharp left at the intersection, the car smoothly adjusting to the shift. His pulse quickens at the thought of what’s about to happen. He can’t wait for the job to be a success. After all, Ganymede only deserves the best.

Tonight, he will supervise Han Seungwoo, the new recruit he personally interviewed and evaluated. Seungwoo is assigned to eliminate T-116 (Lee Sangmin), the first of what may be a career of kills. His skill set unveiled a propensity for guns, knives and physical combat. Wooseok believes he will be a fine asset to the team. 

He hopes he isn’t wrong. Seungyoun trusted him on this.

But first, the awkward silence has to disappear. Wooseok plasters on what he thinks is a friendly smile before talking. “How do you find things so far?,” he asks, attempting to establish a cordial atmosphere. 

“My room is spacious and comfortable,” Seungwoo answers flatly. “I like how the large windows allow light in.”

“Mine is identical,” Wooseok trudges on despite the other’s lackluster response. “You’re on the west wing, right? If you look from the window, you’ll have a view of the garden.” His room is on the similar side as well, and it lets him see the flower bushes whenever he wishes.

“Hn. I’ll try that tomorrow,” Seungwoo replies, adjusting the holster where his Sig is held.

The roads become narrower, an indication that they’re on the seedier part of the district. Wooseok has been here a few times in the past. Patrons are sparse in this area, and the lack of streetlights is foreboding. A line of cheap inns suggest the activities prevailing in this place.

“What’s your impression on Woodz?,” he resumes, his hands molding to the leather of the steering wheel. Seungyoun is rarely called by his birth name in public and is instead referred to as Woodz as a sign of respect.

Seungwoo perks up at the topic. “He’s interesting,” he remarks. “He’s kind until he isn’t. He’s menacing until he isn’t. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.”

“Nobody is able to,” Wooseok states. In his early days of being in Ganymede, he used to say the same. Seungyoun was an enigma, and back then, Wooseok wanted to understand the weather he carried.

Spending time together has resulted to a better grasp of his moods. He knows what ticks him off, what keeps him entertained and what an eyebrow raise could mean. But still, Seungyoun remains shrouded. Even at their closest, he feels out of reach. 

It’s like being shown an ocean, only to find out you can’t swim.

“How long have you been working for him?,” Seungwoo questions. He seems more comfortable, his expressions livelier. As Wooseok usually accompanies the members on their first tasks, he‘s a witness to their reactions. They’re all like this: lax at the mention of the leader.

“Eighteen months,” he answers while searching for a particular neon sign.

Seungwoo faces him, surprise evident in his features. “Wow, that’s quite some time.”

“Yes,” Wooseok nods. “It’s been a while.”

They arrive at an establishment named 24/7 Apartelle. It’s blue all over, and majority of the color is chipping and covered in dirt. Wooseok wouldn’t be shocked if less than ten of its quarters are booked—there are better and cleaner lodges around, and this one is obviously past its prime. 

He kills the engine, checks their weapons and steps out of the car. He supposes he won’t need a gun, but one can’t be too careful so he decides to bring his Glock. Seungwoo trails behind him, a shadow biding his time. Together, they enter the motel, the night none the wiser about the next occurrences.

The lobby is decorated with Hawaiian-inspired embellishments. Beside a Hula girl figurine is a stack of obsolete magazines, their pages torn and curling. A surfboard rests against the wall, forlorn and collecting dust. The receptionist stares at them curiously. They paint an odd picture: two men in suits surrounded by bright hues and palm trees.

“We have three floors in total. You can choose whichever floor you prefer,” the receptionist offers, exhaling an impressive cloud of smoke. Based on her skin and trendy clothes, she can’t be older than forty. Wooseok verifies her name tag. _Park Chaeyoung,_ it reads.

“Third,” he responds.

She pivots and examines the oak holder before getting something. “Room 307. That will be 30,000 won a night.” She hands them a key, the cigarette never leaving her lips. 

Wooseok leans over the reception desk, aiming his mouth close to her ear. He is good at negotiating, and somehow, people end up following his whims. “We are willing to pay 300,000 won,” he proposes, his voice low and sickly sweet. “As long as you ignore every sound we make.”

As expected, it works like magic. “Sure,” she blinks, flustered by the sudden proximity. “I won’t say anything. But damn, I wish my husband is as wild.”

“Here is half of the payment. I’ll bring the other half later,” he winks. Wooseok passes an envelope, and he watches as Chaeyoung counts its contents, beaming and happy. He bids her good night, and they quickly proceed to the lift. Once inside, he presses 3.

“You were brilliant back there,” Seungwoo praises. The elevator rattles loudly, proving its old age.

“We do what we have to do,” Wooseok shrugs, smoothing the wrinkles on his shirt. “I’m not above using charm to fulfill an assignment.”

“For Ganymede?”

“Who else?”

“I wonder then…,” Seungwoo begins before stopping abruptly. He looks hesitant as if debating whether to continue, as if he let out something he shouldn’t.

Wooseok is impatient though, and he dislikes being stalled. “What?,” he says, meeting the other’s gaze in the mirror.

“I wonder how far you will go in order to please,” Seungwoo tells him, and just like that, his experience discloses itself. This must be the tone he uses when he aims to be daunting.

But Wooseok is desensitized, and it takes a lot to unnerve him. It’s a loaded statement; hence, his reply is unflinching. “It depends on where my loyalty lies. If you have my devotion, I’ll be more than willing to give everything.”

The elevator dings, effectively cutting off their conversation. None of them speak further, and they focus their minds on today’s goal. He slides the key inside his suit pocket. It has no use as far as he’s concerned. 

The doors alternate between fuchsia and chartreuse. They walk quietly, halting in front of 301, six numbers ahead of their intended suite. Wooseok rolls his neck. And then, he knocks.

“I told you not to disturb me!,” a man yells from inside. The sound of clattering bottles echo in the hallway, and the turning of the lock comes soon after.

The door has barely opened when Seungwoo fires his gun. It hits the target’s chest and throat, the action so fast he can barely scream. Lee Sangmin collapses and lands flat on his face, his blood soaking the wood panel underneath him.

  
  
  
  


Seungyoun leaves the headquarters shortly after midnight. Escorted by a driver and two bodyguards, he journeys to Itaewon to meet a longtime client. The usual traffic is gone, and their speed renders the city into a blurred painting. He fixes the askew collar of his blue overcoat. In twenty minutes, he reaches his destination.

The entrance is a bookshelf, and only by picking the right title will the door open. He selects Great Gatsby, the name of the bar, and in a few, the shelf rotates halfway, revealing a space to pass through. He squeezes his way in, the chatter reverberating louder with every step he takes.

Combined with a ten-meter counter, concrete walls and high ceilings, the bar is reminiscent of a high class, upgraded factory. Brass and gold accents furnish the place, classy and imposing. The customers are sophisticated with their Rolexes and Armani suits. Dim lights set a mysterious ambiance perfect for tonight’s rendezvous.

Seungyoun scans the area until he catches sight of a person in the corner seat. “Good evening, Yuvin,” he greets, sliding into a metal chair. He signals the bartender for a beer before fully sitting.

“Woodz. You’re here,” Yuvin exclaims, his breath stinking of gin. “Help yourself to a drink.”

“I ordered already,” Seungyoun replies. “So, how are you doing?”

“Bad?,” Yuvin utters, shaking his head with a bitter smirk. “Yeah, pretty bad. The authorities are onto me.”

Song Yuvin makes a living by loaning cash at extremely high interest rates. He has strict terms regarding collection, and failure to pay typically elicits a show of force. People like him are a dime a dozen in the underground, preying on low-income and despairing households.

The beer arrives. Seungyoun gulps a quarter, the coldness refreshing his senses. “How were you tracked?”

“One of my former men tattled. Can’t even eliminate the son of a bitch because it will be another evidence versus me.” Yuvin is visibly agitated, the crease between his brows deepening.

Seungyoun stays calm, however. “And why did you call?”

“As I said over the phone, I’d like to launder the funds I got from loansharking.” 

_Ah,_ it’s something different this time.

Ganymede oversees a business of drug trafficking, money laundering and contract killings. This was how they met: by Seungyoun executing a few who refused to pay and those who couldn’t stay quiet, all under Yuvin’s requests. Since then, he became their regular client.

“There are three steps to do so: placement, layering, and integration,” Seungyoun says matter-of-factly, like how one recites time or the ABC. “Placement means putting the money into the legal financial system, layering conceals the source of the money through a series of transactions and bookkeeping tricks, and integration, where the now-laundered money is withdrawn from the legitimate account.”

“It’s a complicated process,” Yuvin frowns. “That’s why I want to hire you.”

“True enough. All that numbers and sneaky shit,” Seungyoun agrees, taking another swig of the beer. “Ganymede’s services can be arranged. It will cost you though.”

The crowd is thinning. Undoubtedly, these men will come home to their families, shirts clean and lipstick stains erased. When you have enough money, you can do anything and get away with it. 

“I don’t mind. I just need to hide the cash before it’s traced,” he desponds. Yuvin may be rich, but he’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.

And that is what Seungyoun will exploit. After all, sympathy doesn’t make one rich. “Thirty percent.”

“Huh?”

“It’s my asking price. Thirty percent of what you want me to launder.”

Yuvin’s eyes bulge out. “That’s too high.”

“Well then,” Seungyoun says, rising from his seat. “There are other groups who may do the job for you. But will they want the police on their tails? I don’t think so. I was willing because I consider you a friend.” He turns away and walks toward the exit, counting to four in his head. He’s benevolent, truly, for giving these fuckers second chances. _One, two, three—_

“Wait,” Yuvin pleads, reaching for Seungyoun’s arm. “I’ll do it. Just help me.”

Seungyoun’s grin is sinister. “See. It’s easy.” He goes back to the table and raises his drink, toasting to the deal. “Now, where is the money?”

  
  
  
  


The conference area is located at the farthest left of the mansion. Its art deco features are highlighted by shapes and angular chairs, and a vast lacquer table dominates the space. Seungwoo, along with twenty other members, are inside after an emergency notice was issued at dawn. They’re all waiting for the same thing: the leader and what his announcement is.

Seungyoun comes in five minutes later, rushing to sit at the head of the table. Wooseok stands behind him, face guarded and withdrawn. Seungwoo has been to enough meetings to know that the way they look is ominous.

“Gentlemen,” starts Seungyoun, breathing deeply before continuing. “I regret to inform you that we lost a member last night.”

The underground is cruel. It only cares about harboring death, be it thrice a day or at seven in the morning. Entering this world is tantamount to having a gun to your temple. It’s only a matter of time before the trigger is pulled.

Sometimes, Seungwoo is haunted by the feeling of a knife against his skin. And he doesn’t have a right to complain, not when when he inflicts the same distress.

Seungyoun places both of his elbows on the table, his chin resting on interlocked fingers. “Lee Sejin sustained three shots—two in the abdomen and one in the chest. Our private doctor confirmed that a bullet punched his lung, causing his demise. He was gunned on his way to the train station.” At this, he regards them one by one. “We still don’t know who’s responsible.”

The silence lasts for a good minute, air heavy with the implications this incident brings. Ganymede has surely made enemies in its reign. The question is: who among them is the culprit?

“Do you want us to find out?,” Seungwoo volunteers. It’s been three weeks since he joined, and he wants to contribute or help at least.

However, his offer is rejected. “No need. I have people working on it already. I’ll remember that for next time though.” Seungyoun smiles then, different from his usual toothy one but sincere nonetheless. 

Wooseok interrupts, reminding the leader of a nearing lunch appointment. This puts Seungyoun back on track, his expression morphing into its previous indifference. “I’ll have to conclude here,” he says. “I wanted to be transparent so everyone can stay alert. We don’t know who’s looking. Report anything suspicious to either me or Wooseok. Understood?”

The members answer in the affirmative. They wait for the two to leave before moving to their stations. Seungwoo lingers a bit more, watching the Calder mobile on the ceiling spin. The underground is cruel—a never-ending cycle of violence. One death is usually an onset for many.

He perches near the window, resting his body against the glass. He spots Seungyoun and Wooseok holding hands, and even from afar, he can see their fascination. Love can be elusive, a chance shot, a success or a miss. These two clearly made a hit. 

It’s a shame he has to interfere.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seungwoo lolls his head to the side as he glances at him through his lashes. The way his cherry lips contrast against the paleness of his skin reminds Wooseok of sinful things—of strawberries in cream, of blood in snow, of stains tainting the pure and unsullied.

There’s a nonstop buzz in his trouser pocket as he locks the door of the hotel room. Wooseok reaches for his phone to pick up the call, bowing his head down in case someone recognizes him. His brows scrunch at the name on the screen. There’s no reason for this person to contact him, but here he is, interrupting what could be a major deal.

“Hello?,” Wooseok says, annoyance coloring his tone. “I’m in the middle of working, Seungwoo.” An engine rumble resonates through, and he assumes the other must be driving.

“Precisely. That’s why I called,” Seungwoo replies. Something clinks and swishes, the sound akin to a seatbelt being unfastened. Another man speaks in the background, asking for car keys and contact information.

“I don’t have time to talk. So if you can—”

“I just left the car in the valet,” Seungwoo interjects, the noise of outside chatter louder than his voice. “Wait for me. I’m going to your floor.”

“What are you—,”

The line is hung up before Wooseok can finish his sentence. He is tempted to move along, but he knows better than to question this sudden change of plans. Assignment details are highly confidential. If Seungwoo is aware of his, then Seungyoun must’ve shared it with him.

He glances at the wall clock above the hallway table. 9:52 PM. Eight minutes to the appointed start of his meeting. He checks his reflection on the mirrored surface of the lift. He is presentable enough: red suit, black shoes, comma hair. Appearance plays a big role for this client, and he spent an extra hour to make sure he looks his best.

He is fixing a bang when the elevator opens, revealing the person he didn’t think he’d see this evening. Seungwoo is in his usual black ensemble. He towers over him, godly and striking. 

“Why are you here?” Wooseok asks. A familiar scent fills the air, and he ponders if he smelled this perfume somewhere else.

“Woodz told me to go with you,” Seungwoo answers, attaching the cufflinks of his shirt.

“Hm. I’ve never needed reinforcements for these things.” Wooseok acts alone for his own missions. Being with others only slows him and burdens him with responsibilities. While he accompanies members and Seungyoun on most occasions, it's rare for somebody to be sent to assist him.

Tonight’s job is to strike a deal with Hare, a major drug importer prominent throughout Seoul. Hare procures drugs directly from international sources, and these are bought by mafia organizations such as Ganymede to distribute among smaller groups. The groups then dispense the narcotics to popular hotspots and individual traffickers. Ultimately, they end up in the possession of casual users.

Seungwoo shrugs. “He just gave the address of the hotel and the floor you’re in. Told me to dress up, rush and return safely.”

“No additional instructions?”

“None.”

Wooseok sighs. “Since you’re here, I might as well take you with me.” He leads them back to the lift, pressing the button to the next floor quickly. It brings them to the rooftop—a sky bar named Orchid to be exact.

Orchid is located on the 73rd floor of the hotel, and its elevation provides guests with a panoramic view of Seoul. It boasts an open-air terrace and an array of signature drinks. An infinity pool runs along the edge of the building, adding to the opulence of the place. 

Wooseok advances to a corner hidden behind evergreen leaves. He is familiar with the area since most meetings with Hare are done in Orchid. A person comes into view, and he sneakily dusts his clothes before approaching.

“Yohan,” he greets, opening his arms wide. “It’s been a while.”

“Wooseok-ah,” Yohan welcomes, stepping in to reciprocate the gesture. “My favorite.” 

Seungyoun would always tell Wooseok about Yohan’s soft spot for him. He didn’t believe it at first and dismissed it as nonsense. But the other had been consistently nice to him, and when it gave Ganymede leeway to lower prices, they decided it would be better if he dealt with him on a regular basis. Kim Yohan, the head of Hare, likes pretty things.

And Wooseok is nothing if not pretty.

“Don’t let your men hear that,” Wooseok chides jokingly as he detaches from the hug.

“Hey, they support my folly,” Yohan answers, chuckling. His eyes flit to the space beside Wooseok, scanning intently. “You brought fresh meat, I see.”

“He’s Seungwoo, a new recruit. Handsome, isn’t he?” Seungwoo nods upon the mention of his name, his demeanor warm and pleasant. 

“You're still number one, Wooseok-ah. Take a seat, both of you.” Yohan gestures to the empty chairs in front of him. Champagne and cigarettes rest atop the table, unopened and inviting.

Wooseok proceeds to business. There’s a specific drug they have to buy, and it’s up to him to get it as cheaply as possible. “Will being your favorite get me a discount?,” he asks faintly.

“The title comes with perks, of course. How about eight hundred million won?”

“Yohan,” Wooseok says, feigning disappointment. “I thought I was special.”

Yohan becomes serious, his expression adapting into the kingpin that he is. “That’s a low price already, Wooseok. You’re requesting eight kilos.” 

“Can you notch ten million dollars?”

“What do you think?” Yohan glares at them, his playfulness all evaporated. “Seven ninety-five. That’s final.” 

It doesn’t intimidate Wooseok, however. He isn't stopping until Yohan gives in. “Well, it’s not up to me. Woodz won’t pay anything higher than seven ninety.”

Yohan sets his whiskey glass back on the coaster harshly, the action a blatant sign of his displeasure. “Bullshit. Don’t insult me with that kind of offer.”

“Hey, calm down. You know how Woodz gets,” Wooseok diffuses, moving to the seat beside Yohan. “But Ganymede is one of your biggest buyers, and almost half of your stock goes to us regularly. Maybe you can take that into account?” He touches the younger’s arm and leans forward until his chin meets a broad shoulder. They stare at each other, and he can see him softening under his gaze.

Still, Yohan remains hushed.

“Will you consider it?” Wooseok brings his other hand on Yohan’s knee, gently inching his fingers higher until it reaches mid-thigh. He can feel Seungwoo’s eyes on him, and for some reason, it makes him want to be more daring.

_I wonder how far you will go in order to please._

“Alright,” Yohan finally relents, raising a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose, the last of his resolve escaping. “Only because you’re the one negotiating.”

“You're the best, Yohannie,” Wooseok croons, releasing the other from his grasp. He pats him gently and veers back, a complete opposite from the earlier closeness. “You know I don’t like stressing you, but I have to follow the boss’ orders.”

“The shipment will be delivered in three days. Tell Woodz I’d rather you hand the cash over than his ugly face,” Yohan apprises. “I’m going for a dip to cool my head.” He strips off to his shorts and dives into the pool, leaving Wooseok and Seungwoo on their own.

“I thought Yohan was about to choke at some point,” Seungwoo remarks, breaking the silence. It’s his first sentence after their brief chat on the previous floor.

“He can take it. Charm is a gift and gifts aren’t wasted,” Wooseok responds, forming a rectangle with his thumbs and pointer fingers. He hovers it over the night view, capturing Seoul inside the makeshift frame. The skyline gives off a sense of calmness; a freedom from the chaos and the disturbance of the concrete jungle.

Being in the underground only allows him to look in three directions: behind when he’s chased, ahead when he’s chasing and below when he’s about to assassinate a target. A new perspective is a novelty.

“Yeah. I was fascinated, actually.” Seungwoo lolls his head to the side as he glances at him through his lashes. The way his cherry lips contrast against the paleness of his skin reminds Wooseok of sinful things—of strawberries in cream, of blood in snow, of stains tainting the pure and unsullied.

There is a severity to Seungwoo that doesn’t go unnoticed. Wooseok has met people like him: they circle their prey over and over as a stalling tactic, and when it’s unaware, they execute the kill.

  
  
  
  


The drugs arrive in three days as promised. Seungyoun watches as Wooseok turns over the money to Yohan, observing the younger’s obvious affection for the doe-eyed male. They’re all smiles at each other, and from afar, the transaction seems more of an easy banter than an illegal undertaking. He doesn’t mind; he knows Yohan’s attention is just that—fondness. While the nature of their job doesn’t exactly nurture friendship, Hare is one of the few groups Ganymede is amicable with.

“Seven hundred and ninety million won,” Wooseok announces, opening the four briefcases one by one. The containers are brimming with cash, all bundled and neatly stacked.

Yohan picks up a wad and inspects the authenticity of the banknotes. He shuffles and rolls the bills, ensuring that no blank paper is included. “Fetch the item,” he instructs after he finishes. Fortunately, Yohan isn’t insistent on having the entire payment recounted by his men.

A Hare member wheels in a crate. He takes out a crowbar and jams it into a loose corner, lifting and prying the wood open from one side to another. Several packets fall after the box is dismantled, uncovering the shiny blue-white rocks which are now owned by the mafia. _Crystal meth._ A proof that hedonistic suffering can come from something so tiny.

Seungyoun has had his fair share of drugs. It’s nearly impossible to supply without dipping, and youth has a way of making one curious about these things. It’s always pleasant: the spike in his pulse, the kaleidoscopic fantasies. But he prefers to be present, especially since his role demands for his senses to be intact. He understands the appeal though—floating in a hallucinatory, numb-like state is a wet dream for people with demons.

And he might as well be a demon himself by capitalizing on their situations.

“Are we okay?,” he asks, walking closer to Yohan. The exchange is done, and the items have been verified. It’s three fifteen in the morning—a good hour to call it a day.

“Yes. Even though you duped me 10 mil,” Yohan quips, elbowing Seungyoun in the ribs. 

The other leans away to dodge the attack. “Hey, it’s not my fault you’re weak for Wooseok.”

“I’m telling you, Hyung. Hare is going to steal him one day,” Yohan teases, his eyebrows wiggling in mirth. It’s an empty threat, one he repeats every time they meet.

“Yeah, yeah,” Seungyoun replies offhandedly. “As I always say, you’re free to try.” He wraps an arm around Yohan’s shoulders and drags him to an area near the barrels. The next conversation is private, and they need to be isolated.

When they’re out of earshot, Seungyoun drops the question he’s been waiting to ask all night. “Is it him?,” he whispers, moving his head close to Yohan’s ear.

“Yes. I’m sure,” Yohan answers, eyes solemn.

Somehow, he saw this coming. “Are you really?,” Seungyoun utters, still a bit disbelieving. “My plans will depend on this, Yohan. You have to be certain.”

“Hyung,” Yohan pauses, turning to face him. “I don’t think I’ll forget the people who murdered my father.”

Seungyoun has witnessed Yohan at his worst—astray after the death of someone he idolized and respected. He was never the same since then. Grief does that to a person. No one passes through it without becoming different.

Contrition blooms in his chest, heavy and sharp like lead. “I’m sorry,” Seungyoun apologizes, ruffling Yohan’s mop of dark curls. He pulls him back to where the members are gathered. Maybe it’s time for them to rest.

After handshakes and farewells, both groups return to their respective vehicles. Wooseok is designated to drive for Seungyoun, and they spend the first minutes of their ride in silence.

“Something on your mind?,” Wooseok finally inquires.

“A lot, actually,” Seungyoun murmurs, his gaze directed outside the window. Most establishments are closed by now, leaving the city dim and full of shadows.

“You can talk about it if you’re comfortable.” 

“When I’m better,” Seungyoun replies briefly, spinning on his seat to focus on Wooseok. The lights slant into the car seats, shrouding them in brightness one minute and in darkness the other. Beautiful things have this effect on him—an ache in his bones, a weight on his brain, a yearning for them to be destroyed.

“Wooseokie,” he says. “Can you do something for me?”

“What is it?,” Wooseok responds, shifting the gear stick. They’re almost at the mansion, and the incoming curve is their street. Already, the thirty-year-old tree can be seen.

Seungyoun feels a rush in his veins, vicious and scalding. “I want you to be in control.”

Wooseok clutches the steering wheel tightly. “Anything you want, Seungyoun,” he says. “Anything.”

  
  
  
  


The sheets are soft against Seungyoun’s face, the silk unhelpful on his search for something to grip. Wooseok pounds into him from behind, his cock rubbing against his prostate, brutal and unforgiving. The stretch burns a little, but it’s the kind of hurt that brings him to the precipice. He is barely coherent from the pleasure, mind shutting down from how good it is.

“Look at you, baby,” Wooseok says, licking the shell of his ear. “You’re taking everything so well. I like it when you fill me up, but making you dumb is my favorite too.”

Seungyoun can hear how lewd his moans are but he doesn’t care. He only wants to reach that high, that reckless abandon, that suspended space that lets him forget his name. And he senses it approaching with every thrust, his chest already heaving in anticipation.

But then Wooseok pulls out. His hole clenches around nothing, and he cries at how painful it is to be suddenly left aching. 

“No,” he whines, turning his head to the side, tear tracks glistening under the light. _He was so, so close._

“Shh,” Wooseok soothes, pressing a thumb on his cheek. “You know I’m not going to leave you unsatisfied.” 

He is turned around, his legs pushed up and his knees to his chest as Wooseok slams back into him. There is no slow entry this time, and his eyes roll back at the sensation of being full again. The bed smacks against the wall with every hard thrust, making him moan loudly, his nails drawing blood on Wooseok’s unblemished skin.

A particular spot sends him screaming, and Wooseok takes advantage of his open lips, inserting two fingers in. Seungyoun starts gagging, spit and drool leaking out of his mouth as they are pressed further down this throat.

“Gonna come,” he pleads brokenly, body arching off the bed as he feels himself cresting. The intensity almost scares him, and he closes his eyes to prepare for it.

“Go,” Wooseok orders, going even faster and deeper, his hold sure to bruise the next morning. Like a trigger, the command sets Seungyoun off, his vision going white and starry. The last thing he registers is Wooseok's face, still a marvel even in the midst of shattering.

  
  
  
  


LED advertisements illuminate the highway, showcasing an array of products from electronics to supplements. A tablet, a messaging service and a cushion endorsed by an actress—Seungwoo knows the order by now with how often he traversed this stretch for the past days. 

He is to meet with Song Yuvin to formally close a job under his name. Money laundering was the request, and it took one week for the operation to be completed. Seungwoo spent his afternoons doing wire transfers and currency exchanges, and three Swiss accounts were set up as funnels. With the cash successfully concealed, the authorities weren’t able to find evidence of Yuvin’s illegal activities. No arrest warrants were filed, and he stays as a free man.

The provided address points to Cheongdam-dong, an affluent neighborhood in Gangnam-gu. Seungwoo drives by the high-end designer boutiques until he reaches a black building at the end of the alley. A neon sign flashing _Vault_ indicates his destination, the only color in an otherwise desolate street. He stations his car between two other Benzes. The wind is freezing when he steps out, prompting him to enter the premises hastily.

Unsurprisingly, the watering hole is popular on a Friday night. One can’t pass through the crowd without bumping into random strangers. The music is drowned by cackles and vulgar discourse. He spots Yuvin in the bar seat, sipping red wine with his gold-ringed fingers. 

“Seungwoo,” Yuvin exclaims, placing his glass on the counter. “How is my savior?”

“You flatter me,” Seungwoo answers, settling beside him. “I’ve been swell.” 

“But it’s true. You saved my life.”

“I just did what you paid us for.” The bartender hands him a menu and Seungwoo browses it, selecting from a seemingly endless list of cocktails. In the end, he opts for a Martini.

Yuvin swirls his drink, looking at Seungwoo from above the rim. “Tell me, how does Ganymede consistently unearth diamonds while we end up with blokes?”

“Well, you can start by screening better,” Seungwoo deadpans.

A boisterous chuckle comes from Yuvin, his shoulders shaking from the force of his laughter. “I really like you. Woodz hit the jackpot by hiring you.”

“Wooseok was the one who reviewed my application,” Seungwoo shares, picking a stray fur caught on the wool of his coat. His interview seems like a long time ago.

Ganymede has been kind to him so far. His first month was booked, and it gave him more money than he could do with. The group runs a near perfect model: missions are assigned based on skills, pay is dependent on efficiency and speed of fulfillment, and division of wages is under a sixty-forty system. Seungyoun is a generous and effective leader. This is probably why the members are loyal to him.

“Ah, the right hand man? Leading is like that, you know. You let others do the work for you,” Yuvin says as he refills his glass with another round of wine. “The trust must’ve been copious though if Woodz delegated such a hefty task.”

“Yeah,” Seungwoo agrees. “They rely on each other a lot.”

“From what I’m seeing anyway, Wooseok didn’t choose wrong.”

“I hope they’ll think the same.” There’s an underlying message in the statement that Yuvin fails to discern, and it dissolves with the smoke of his Marlboro Red. This is what most people lack: scrutiny. There’s a lot one can know just by observing.

The noise dies down as the night deepens. Seungwoo’s Martini is almost empty, and he eats the olives submerged in it. The briny taste sticks to his tongue, dense and bitter.

Yuvin takes out a briefcase. “Here is the thirty percent,” he states, handing the settlement over. One hundred and eighty six million won—nothing more, nothing less.

Seungwoo accepts, firmly grasping the handle. “Thank you,” he replies, calculating mentally. He can expect a cool seventy-four.

Yuvin nods once, gratitude peeking through his grin. “You can go,” he says, making a shoo motion with his left hand.

“Huh?”

“I can see on your face that you dislike busy places,” the other comments. “Besides, I have a girl coming. I don’t want anyone cramping my style.”

“If you’re sure,” Seungwoo hesitates.

“I am. Now go. Tell Woodz I appreciate his business.” Yuvin unlocks his phone and brings it to his ear, most likely calling his date. Seungwoo takes this as his cue to exit, gripping the suitcase close to his body. Outside, the snow is falling. He starts the car and puts the cash on the empty passenger seat.

The way back to the mansion clocks in at forty minutes. Seungwoo goes straight to the topmost floor, his steps wide and brisk. This is where the principal rooms are situated—the cash vaults, the armory, the leader’s quarters. He stops before an orange door, knocks on it twice and waits in standby for permission.

“Come in,” a voice says. Seungwoo inhales deeply before entering.

The office is twice the size of his own room. There is a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on one side and a connecting entryway on the other (to Seungyoun’s bedroom, probably). A Kohei Nawa deer made of glass prisms is plastered on the wall. At the center of the space is Seungyoun, behind a grand oak table, seated in an armchair with a back so tall it could have been a throne.

As protocol, Seungwoo keeps a two feet distance from the furniture. He opens the attaché, presenting the money he obtained from Yuvin. 

“I’m impressed,” Seungyoun commends, reaching for a bundle of 50,000 won bills. “You’re doing well.”

The praise makes Seungwoo preen. “I’m just doing my job,” he responds, getting a pen to sign and confirm the payment. He drops his pocket square in the process, and he crouches to pick it up, only to discover something interesting instead.

Someone is kneeling under the desk.

It is then that he notices: Seungyoun, while sitting relaxedly, is flushed and stiff. On his sideburns are beads of sweat—odd for tonight’s freezing temperatures. The veins of his hands are visible, and his breath is audibly shallow. Seungwoo looks at him directly.

Seungyoun stares back, quirking an eyebrow, his eyes shining with amusement.

_Ah._

Seungwoo moves forward, letting the front of his loafers touch the bare feet of the person underneath. By now, he is sure that all three of them are aware of each other’s presence. He wets his lips and bites it, and the way Seungyoun follows the movement doesn’t escape him.

“I better get going,” he says. He pivots on his heel and walks towards the door, glancing back as he turns the knob. Seungyoun is still smiling mischievously. It takes all of Seungwoo’s will to bring himself to leave.

  
  
  
  


Rain continues to pour, soaking Wooseok’s umbrella and the bottom of his leather shoes. The alley is quiet and vacant, save for the pitter-patter on the pavement. He studies the fading bricks and exposed pipes before him. Old and decaying, they attest to the age of the buildings. A pile of trash bags is left to rot in the corner, its putrid smell mixing with petrichor.

Ripples appear on the puddle of water next to him, breaking his trance. A shadow materializes, and Wooseok lifts his chin to acknowledge the visitor. 

“I’m surprised you recognized me,” the other speaks.

“Your perfume.”

“What?”

Wooseok scrunches his nose. “You wore the same perfume to Orchid.”

The shadow steps under the streetlight, betraying a high nose and a sharp jaw he’s familiar with. There is a severity to this person that doesn’t go unnoticed. Wooseok has met people like him: they move slowly and surely, and when everyone is unaware, they disrupt the world from moving.

“How have you been, Captain?,” Wooseok asks, testing the word on his mouth, buried in the recesses of his consciousness from how long he last pronounced it.

Seungwoo slicks his hair back, smirking.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wooseok chances a glance at Seungyoun. Somewhere in his body, buried underneath pretenses, is his heart, constricting. Finding a love like this always ruins him. But from the start, he was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for this chapter: Blood and Gore, Torture, Explicit Sexual Content, Threesome, Voyeurism, Gun Play/Kink
> 
> Please tell me if I forgot any tags. Thank you as always for reading!

A scream resounds throughout the room, prompting Seungyoun to stuff the man’s mouth with a greasy cloth. He feels agitated, and his patience runs lower with each unanswered question. A Ganymede member attempts to pacify him by taking over. He rejects the help, reinforcing his hold on the butterfly knife instead.

“Let’s see, you have two fingers remaining,” he says, sauntering to the middle. “That means you have two more chances. I’m going to ask again: how many of you are left?”

The man cowers under his glare. “I don’t know! I haven’t talked to any of them!,” he denies, trying his best to speak through the fabric.

The entire apartment is trashed. Majority of the furniture is wrecked; the cabinets ransacked and the television transmitting color bars through a splintered screen. On the corner is a faded couch, slashed until its springs are popping out. Once upon a time, this space would’ve been a perfect family home. Now, all it’ll be is a death coffin.

Jang Geunsoo is in the kitchen, body tied to a chair and hands cuffed to the table. He is crying and whimpering, terrified of losing his life. Seungyoun bends until they’re at eye level, wiping tears with a hand, the pointed tip of the blade kissing the other’s lower eyelids.

“Your one of two chances is gone,” he snarls, abruptly rotating the knife and plunging it, effectively cleaving Geunsoo’s index finger. Another shriek echoes, and Seungyoun’s eyes roll to the back of his head in satisfaction.

“Please,” Geunsoo begs. “Have mercy.”

Seungyoun cackles maniacally, sweeping the severed chunk off the table using the blade. “You say that as if it’s up to me. Had you been honest from the start, you wouldn’t have to endure this treatment,” he hisses, tracing the knife along Geunsoo’s jawline. “This is your last hope. How many of you are left?”

If there’s one thing people around Seungyoun would say, it’s to never make him mad. Many misconstrue his easygoing attitude for leniency, oblivious to the monster residing underneath.

Geunsoo is almost crazed from fear, his blood, tears and sweat mixing into a turbid mess. “I don’t—,” he starts, but his sentence is halted by a stab, hacking his remaining finger off—a thumb. His head lolls down, barely with any strength to stay upright; his body weak from terror and blood loss.

His sobbing is interrupted by the shrill ding of an oven timer. “Oh my, did we disturb your dinner?,” Seungyoun mocks, laughing at the absurdity of its timing.

A member presses a gun to Geunsoo’s nape. _It will always come to this,_ Seungyoun thinks, callous and remorseless. He rounds the floor, his gaze on the ceiling, observing an eclipse of moths crowd the lightbulb. The ones who get too close overheat and die.

“Shoot him,” he commands as he watches a moth fall to the ground.

Geunsoo pales, panic hitting him at full force. His eyes dart from side to side, seemingly at a loss on how to keep himself alive. “Four!,” he suddenly yells, voice hoarse from shouting.

Seungyoun instructs for the stuffed cloth to be removed. “What is that?,” he questions, advancing closer to the bound victim.

“Four. There’s four including me.”

Ah, it’s just as he suspected.

His hip meets a wooden corner. He lays the knife down, pleased with the change of events. “I knew you’d see reason. Sadly, it had to cost you a few body parts,” he says, brushing hairs away from Geunsoo’s damp face.

“Are you going to let me go?,” Geunsoo asks, pleading to be spared. He looks optimistic despite his disfigured appearance.

However, Seungyoun raises a finger, and the trigger is pulled.

  
  
  
  


The hole in the wall is quaint and tiny, and its wood panels are full of framed newspaper clippings. A lively trot song plays in the background, contrasting the gloom of the outside downpour. The ahjumma owner welcomes them warmly and points to a laminated menu near the kitchen. A spicy smell wafts throughout the place, reminding Seungwoo that he hasn’t eaten all day.

“What do you want to order?,” he asks, choosing a seat near the window. Only three tables are occupied: one by them, one by a well-dressed woman who is busy with her phone and one by a teenage couple who won't stop kissing.

Wooseok stares at him blankly, his lips pressing into a tight line. “Just choose anything. I’m not picky.”

This is no problem for Seungwoo—he is familiar with Wooseok’s preferences anyway. Fifteen minutes later, the ahjumma brings two bowls of doenjang stew and a plate of dakbal. He gets his chopsticks, tearing off its paper wrap before splitting it in the middle.

“Why are you sulking? Isn’t this your favorite?,” he teases, taking a piece of chicken feet and dangling it in front of a silent Wooseok. He remembers him enjoying it at every single one of their gatherings.

“Why are you here?,” the other responds impassively, not biting the bait. He hasn’t touched anything since they sat. His utensils are still in their places.

Seungwoo puts the food down, realizing that Wooseok is determined to get an answer right away. And he deserves it, after a period of radio silence. “To do what you aren’t doing. You’re taking too long.”

“Taking too long?,” Wooseok asks incredulously, his voice rising. “The group suddenly went AWOL. The headquarters were gone and your numbers weren’t working. I was stuck in Ganymede without any directive if I was to carry out the mission or not.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard why.”

“I did. But not from a member. Nor the leader,” Wooseok chides, his scorning gaze focusing on Seungwoo. There is bitterness in his tone, a reproach rightfully earned by someone who was left in the dark.

 _Leader._ The last time Seungwoo was called by that title was eighteen months ago—before everything went to hell. He hated that word, and he hated every connotation it came with. When the responsibility was given to him, he adapted to what he thought he should be, even if the change was at the expense of his own self. 

And it bore fruit, he’d like to think. Lilac, while not as powerful as Ganymede, had a steady stream of income and clients. Every successful job brought an image of reliability, and Seungwoo savored how it made him feel honorable despite the shithole he was in. This was his first mistake, the first chip that damaged an otherwise solid bearing: he appeased his ego. Being viewed in a good light preceded everything else.

“It was sudden. I had six hours to warn the members,” he explains, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “I had to make sure that they all escaped ahead of our headquarters being discovered. Large organizations were chasing us, and based on how they did things, I knew they wouldn’t leave anyone alive.”

Wooseok begins to eat, chewing a cartilage carefully and spitting out the tiny bones into a separate plate. “How did we end up having them on our tails? As far as I know, we steered from overly risky jobs.”

“You did. I didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Seungwoo sighs, recalling the disaster he unintentionally escorted. “One of our regulars requested for five hits. A bullet for every infamous mafia head—Vice’s Park Seongcheol, Stone’s Kwon Hojun, Forum’s Lee Joowon, Carbon’s Kim Taehui and Ganymede’s Cho Seungyoun. The mission was priced at eight billion won with the weapons and protection provided by the client. I accepted.”

“Holy fuck,” Wooseok exclaims, disbelief taking over his face. “Even ten or twenty is not worth that many enemies.”

“In hindsight, I was stupid,” Seungwoo says, shaking his head in apprehension. “I was always thinking ‘what if we made it?’ that I failed to realize it was doomed from the start. We were three murders in when the plan crumbled.”

This was his second mistake: he pandered to his grandiose delusions. If the cursed mission turned out to be a success, it would shoot Lilac to the top, ushering money, influence and notoriety. The prize was sweet and tempting. High rewards came with high risks, and he thought they were ready.

“After the initial half ended favorably, I sent two more members for the last two murders—Kim Kookheon to Carbon and you to Ganymede,” he continues. “Unfortunately, the fourth group intercepted our movements. When Kookheon stopped reporting, I knew something was amiss. I called our client and personally went to them several times for assistance, but they were never seen again.”

“What happened to Kookheon?,” Wooseok asks, wiping the excess dakbal sauce off the corners of his mouth. The lines of his expression are less harsh now—far from his previous vehemence.

Seungwoo forces a grin, one that is unhappy and a bit too sardonic. “They held Kookheon captive and tortured him for information. You’re aware of how strict Lilac was with privacy. I was the only one who knew how everyone looked like and that was due to the screening process. We had a strict rule of wearing masks inside the headquarters, preventing the members from recognizing each other’s faces,” he narrates, pausing to swallow before resuming. “Because of this, Kookheon wasn’t able to describe a member, especially me. He had no idea about the extent of the plan either, only that he was assigned to terminate the head. In the end, he could only give the group’s name. It spread like wildfire, and we found ourselves being targeted instead.”

“You can’t blame him though,” Wooseok says. “God knows what they did to him.”

“I don’t. It was my fault in the first place. Over the succeeding days, Lilac was abolished.” Seungwoo can admit it now. Guilt is a bitch. It’s always over his head, gnawing and waiting to be settled.

This was his final mistake, the weight that toppled what he painstakingly built: he trusted the wrong people—no, _he trusted,_ plain and simple. In the underground, nothing is graver than putting your faith in somebody. In three errors, his hardwork was reduced to dust.

“And you’re back. I guess you’re eager to pick up where things were left off,” Wooseok says, clenching his jaw.

“I’m not going to demand anything from you,” denies Seungwoo. “If I was, it would’ve been easier to instruct you from afar. But I’m involving myself directly.”

Wooseok studies him, tired of diversions. “Answer my question then. Why are you here?”

“As I said earlier, to do what you aren’t doing,” Seungwoo shrugs, slurping a spoonful of the jjigae. “The client approached me a while after the ruckus, offering three billion on top of the original price if the mission is concluded. I’m here to complete it myself. I gunned down the fourth target ten months ago.”

“Are you for real?,” Wooseok asks, flabbergasted. “They betrayed you and yet you’re working for them?”

“Who says I won’t betray them in return?”

“What?”

“I’ll do what they want me to do, then I’ll get the billions, and then—bang,” Seungwoo says, making a gun gesture with his hand. He points it to Wooseok and pulls back as if he’s shooting the real thing.

There is an advantage to losing: he has no other people to worry about, and he can finally move according to his wishes. At the moment, his priority is retribution and he won’t stop until he achieves it. Vengeance is a bitch. It’s always over his head, festering and waiting to be exacted.

“And to accomplish that means you have to kill Seungyoun,” Wooseok guesses, placing his used chopsticks on the side, his balmy tone contradicting the gravity of what he said.

“Yes,” Seungwoo nods. “I have two weeks left so you can prepare your goodbyes until then.”

“How can you be certain that I’ll let it happen?”

“I don’t think you can do much. You innocently allowed me into Ganymede. If I didn’t wear that scent, you wouldn’t have a clue.”

A cruel laugh escapes from Wooseok, making the other patrons spin in their direction. “That was and will be your downfall. You tend to underestimate,” he states, playing with a toothpick between his teeth. “In Lilac, you were hidden by masks and suits and was solely addressed as Captain. But I can’t work for someone and not be aware of the little things—your fingers are long, you tower over me and you have a piercing on your right ear. I could tell right away during the screening.”

He was mistaken. Wooseok knew what was happening, and he only acted like he didn’t. Seungwoo feels outsmarted, but then again, he is surrounded by people who are clever and sage.

_This will be fun._

Wooseok tilts his head to the side, continuing his tirade. “You’re part of Ganymede because I can track you better within the mansion. When you used the perfume which smells like your former office, I knew you were announcing your identity. So I engaged.”

“Does Woodz know?”

“No. It’s my job to get rid of the insignificant so he won’t have to stress.”

“As expected, Wooshin. You’re still brutal,” Seungwoo flatters. Still pretty and still brilliant, but he keeps those to himself.

Wooseok lays a few bills on the table. “Don’t call me that. Wooshin was in Lilac. Wooseok is in Ganymede,” he chastises. He adjusts his tie and rises, his stare threatening. 

Before he can turn around, Seungwoo poses a question. “Was the office carpet gentle on your knees?”

It was meant to insult, but Wooseok reacts on the contrary, peeling his shoulders back and lifting his chin even higher. “Yes. I stayed in position for hours,” he taunts, his lips curling into a smirk. He moves towards the exit, leaving Seungwoo alone in his seat.

Outside, the rain has calmed to a drizzle. Seungwoo leans his head against the glass, watching the other navigate his way out of the alley. No matter where they are, it’s always the same scene—him looking on as Wooseok walks away from him.

  
  
  
  


_This is odd,_ Wooseok muses. Seungyoun and Seungwoo are often together recently.

It began with an accidental encounter in the garden. He and Seungyoun were in the gazebo when Seungwoo rushed in, muttering excuses of assuming that it was unoccupied. Since then, they would often run into him—in the dining hall, by the pool, inside the recreation area. Wooseok is convinced that it’s all part of a plot. Seungwoo’s room has a clear view of the garden. Additionally, the gazebo is constructed with glass, rendering it impossible to miss anyone inside. 

Still, Seungyoun was cordial, and he would talk to Seungwoo each time until their greetings became chats and their chats became conversations. Sometimes, Seungyoun would even seek the older himself, struck by his earnestness to locate Lee Sejin’s killer. This is why Wooseok isn’t intervening. Thus far, Ganymede doesn’t have a lead regarding the murder, and he doesn’t want to impede any contributor to its progress. He hopes Seungwoo is being sincere in this aspect at least, although he isn’t counting much on it.

What he will do in the meantime is remain on standby. There’s a lot one can know by looking. For example: the conference area is the perfect surveillance spot, and his visual field registers the two, huddled and engrossed in dialogue.

A hand rests on Seungyoun’s back, creeping lower until it reaches the top of his trousers. Interestingly, he lets it be. This is new—such action would usually merit a punishment. The group forbids any physical contact with the leader unless initiated by him, and violators are compensated with a broken rib. Seungyoun must be comfortable if he isn’t doing anything.

When Seungwoo leans to whisper in the other’s ear, Wooseok knows then that a plan is unfolding. Something stirs inside of him—curiosity, adrenaline and _maybe_ a bit of arousal. Above, the Calder mobile is steadily revolving. He moves away from the wall he’s propped on and proceeds to where the pair is. 

Seungyoun notices him first, rewarding him with a blinding grin he doesn’t think he deserves. Seungwoo follows with a subtle nod, as if they didn’t meet the night before. Wooseok wonders how they're so skilled at pretending.

“I was passing so I thought I’d say hi,” he greets, bowing to both men. “I hope I didn’t intrude on something private.”

“No,” Seungyoun answers, turning to Seungwoo briefly. “As usual, we’re discussing Sejin.”

Wooseok stands upright, tucking a loose fold of his long-sleeve in his pants. “Are there new developments?”

“Actually, a name has been pinpointed. Lee Jinhyuk,” Seungyoun shares, one hand on his hip and the other touching his nape. “Our tracing disclosed the organization he’s in, and I made arrangements for us to talk in person. We can’t eliminate him without finding out the exact reason behind the hit.”

“Oh, that’s good then,” Wooseok commends, feeling his shoulders lighten. Sejin’s death cast a heavy cloud over the group. This news will put everyone off edge.

Seungyoun links an arm with Seungwoo, his affection plain as day. “It’s thanks to his guy. He brought us on the right track,” he boasts. One doesn’t have to be near to know he’s impressed.

“I only helped,” Seungwoo smiles, shaking his head in deflection. If they’re this close already, then Wooseok has a lot of catching up to do.

A simple way to end this charade is to be straightforward, to just reveal the mission he once participated in. But that’s the problem—it requires him to come clean. How does one open such a topic? _Hey Seungyoun, I came from Lilac and I joined Ganymede to assassinate you but then the group dissolved so the assignment became null but hey my former leader has returned and the ball is rolling again I guess???_ He can downplay the situation as much as he can, but ultimately, the fact that he intended to betray won’t change. In his skewed perception, resolving the issue by himself will best prove his noninvolvement.

It would also be simpler to just assassinate Seungwoo; but Wooseok is twisted himself, and he loves a good game. He wants to witness how sick his schemes will be, to see if he’d be willing to go as far as he did. 

If Wooseok was a different person, he’d take cover at the earliest sign of a brewing storm. However, he relishes tumult—revels in it even.

A member scurries to where they are situated, interrupting their conversation. “Permission to speak,” he requests, removing his cap before bowing.

Seungyoun’s brows meet, an indication that the visit is unexpected. “Proceed,” he answers, unaware that a single term will demolish all the headway they made.

The member firmly delivers the next words. “Sir, Lee Jinhyuk is dead.”

In the underground, everyone has a plan. Wooseok is no exception.

  
  
  
  


“What now?”

Seungyoun has been asking himself the same question for the past three hours. Lee Jinhyuk’s death reinstates them on a standstill, canceling all of their efforts in the previous days. He was certain that they were onto something, only for the unthinkable to happen, negating the means they’ve exhausted to follow this specific lead. He pinches the bridge of his nose, anticipating the headache that’s about to come.

“I’m not sure,” he replies. “But I have the name of his group.”

“Should we go to them directly?,” Seungwoo asks, schooling his features. He’s been helpful throughout the whole ordeal, chasing every rumor and account relaid to Ganymede. More than his skill set, his tenacity is what Seungyoun appreciates. A lot of people are capable, but only a few are willing to do the work.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. While it could be them, there are other factors to consider too,” Seungyoun explains, acquainted with the ways of the lawless land. “Was Jinhyuk outsourced? Was it a contract kill? If it is, the blame will be on anyone but the group itself. Barging in without proof will only cause an unnecessary gang war.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Seungwoo admits, dropping his gaze.

“It’s okay. Strategy is my chore. To carry out plans is yours,” Seungyoun says, picking up a rollerball pen and twirling it between his fingers. Seoul is in the middle of winter, making it hard to deploy missions. This hinders their progress.

They lapse into silence after that, both immersed in their respective consciousness. He gathers the data in his head—future actions, deals, what’s significant and what’s not. Outside, the snow falls, engulfing the mansion in white. Deep in thought, he misses Seungwoo’s question at first.

“Hn?,” he asks, putting the pen down and refocusing on the present.

“Is it difficult to lead?,” Seungwoo repeats. Then as if realizing the invasive nature of his query, he shakes his head and apologizes. “I’m sorry. It’s too personal.”

Seungyoun chooses to respond however, albeit succinctly. “I’m trying my best.”

“I think you’re doing well. It’ll be hard to surpass you,” Seungwoo praises, his tone genuine, spreading warmth in Seungyoun’s chest. He is no stranger to compliments—people vie for his attention all the time—but somehow, Seungwoo’s sincerity stands out from the others.

“To be frank, it can be grueling. But it is what it is,” Seungyoun remarks, shrugging a shoulder. “I’ve long accepted that I have to step on some toes.”

At this, Seungwoo is awed. “If I was in your place, I’d probably be paranoid 24/7.”

“It’s unavoidable so there’s no use in worrying about it. Besides, they’re lucky if stepping is all I do. Sometimes, I have the toes chopped,” Seungyoun jokes, a disturbing grin stretching his lips. Sinister and a little deranged, he looks every bit the criminal that he is. 

If he is to be transparent, there’s a fair amount of intel he’s withholding, like when Jinhyuk was murdered, he was under Ganymede’s surveillance. This can only mean two things: that an outsider was able to sneak in,

or that it was a member who did it.

Seungyoun will divulge these one day, but for now, he needs assurance. He leans closer to Seungwoo until their faces are inches apart, stopping before their noses touch. 

“You’ve done hits for our clients, Seungwoo,” he begins, staring at the other’s lips and then at the brown of his pupils. In the short time he’s surveyed him, he already found his weakness—Seungwoo is a person who follows his desires.

_This will be easy._

Seungwoo swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing from the action. Seungyoun places a hand above his, looking at him through his lashes.

“But when the time comes, will you kill for me?”

  
  
  
  


Seungwoo is once again outside the topmost office, standing in front of an orange door that has become familiar to him. He’d usually have conversations with Seungyoun in this room, tackling everything from weapons to existentialism. Seungyoun is surprisingly funny and wise, and their talks are often peppered with quips. He understands it now; the disparity between their methods, why Seungyoun is effective in his role and why he wasn't.

Still, he isn’t claiming that they’re friends. At the end of the day, it’s a companionship born out of lies and deceit. It doesn’t stop him from laughing at his antics though. Worse, it doesn’t stop his brain from forming some sort of attraction towards the younger. He’s always been like this—wilting for pretty boys with pretty smiles and pretty words.

A moan comes from inside, diverting his thoughts into uncharted territory. A louder one follows after, making his hand freeze midair, unsure of what to do next. Did he mishear the instructions? But he was told to report immediately and to just proceed as the door is left unlocked—

 _Ah_. It’s an invitation. Like the last one that he refused.

He pushes the door open. The smell of sex hits him outright, and what’s happening becomes apparent. He slowly treads to the middle of the space, his heart hammering with each step. When he arrives at the side of the grand desk, he turns to his left.

It’s a carnal picture: the leader plowing into Wooseok who is facedown on the bed. They have yet to notice him, and he indulges in the image they present. The underground is a sin dispenser, and he has seen it at its most wicked. Still, Seungwoo feels lightheaded, entranced by how wanton the cries are, by how Seungyoun’s muscles bulge with his every movement. 

A particular thrust lifts Wooseok’s head, and in that moment, their gazes lock. It must’ve done something because Seungyoun groans, the sound going straight to Seungwoo’s gut. 

“Fuck, baby. You’re clenching too much,” Seungyoun says, slowing down. Wooseok mumbles around the fingers in his mouth, his words incomprehensible from all of his gagging. Seungwoo is tempted to touch himself, but he reels it in, knowing that the relief will be empty. 

Instead, he clears his throat.

Seungyoun stares up, amusement painting his eyes. It’s abhorrent how he looks at him, like he’s expecting him to be here, like he knows he’ll agree, like he’s privy to his most perverted fantasies. Seungwoo hates it—fuck, he’s never felt so insulted—but depravity sets in, and what’s vile becomes arousing.

“Oh. Is this why you suddenly tightened? Because someone is watching?,” Seungyoun rasps, keeping his eyes on Seungwoo as he mouths the sides of Wooseok’s neck. 

“Yeth,” Wooseok whimpers, drool on the corners of his mouth. “I love ith.”

“So dirty. You have no problems letting people know how dirty you are, no? Seungwoo will have his turn later, and he’ll see how filthy you can be,” Seungyoun says, pulling out entirely. He manhandles the younger to his lap, his chest to the other’s back, showing off the canvas that is Wooseok’s body. His creamy skin is adorned with purple and red, by blooming bruises and hickies.

Seungyoun slides back in with one thrust, starting a brutal pace that has Wooseok crying out, his torso only kept in place by an arm around his tiny waist. There is no gentleness this time, and all that's left is a chase to reach their peaks. It isn’t long until it happens. Seungwoo observes everything with a watchful eye—how Wooseok is all graceful lines and how it contrasts against Seungyoun’s hard planes. The pair lies flat on the bed, catching their breaths. 

Seungyoun is the first to stand, disposing of the condom before sitting on the loveseat adjacent to the bed. Seungwoo feels a little awkward now, adrenaline fading yet stimulated. Technically, he’s outside of the bedroom, on the boundary separating it and the office to be exact. If he’s asked to return now, he swears to God—

“Go in,” Seungyoun orders, lounging with his legs wide apart, unabashedly naked. Seungwoo lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

The quarters are gray and bare, and the lack of furniture makes it even more vacant. Beside the bed is a side drawer topped with tiny trinkets and books with obscure titles. The most eye-catching piece in the room is a Francis Bacon painting—its subject warped and distorted.

“That looks painful,” Seungyoun interrupts, zeroing in on the tent of his trousers. “Should we have it sucked first or?”

“Is Wooseok fine with this?,” Seungwoo deflects, facing said person. While the intent of the summon is obvious, it still wasn’t bluntly expressed.

“It’s okay,” Wooseok answers, raising his head to meet his eyes. “I was the one who suggested this to him.” The statement irritates Seungwoo. Somehow, it feels like he was trapped. 

He can’t shake the notion of being a pawn, of being a chess piece in an otherwise crafty game. But he’s here and there’s no going back. He might as well manipulate the situation to his advantage.

“Let’s start then. I’ve always wanted my own porn,” Seungyoun smiles, wrapping a hand around his half-hard cock. “I’ll be watching and occasionally giving pointers.”

A shift has occurred, charging the air with tension. Seungwoo moves to the bed, dazzled by how debauched Wooseok is. Sometimes, he dreams of him like this—tear-stained and thoroughly fucked. Now, he’ll have the chance to wreck him himself.

And he won't let go of it.

Wooseok rises halfway, reaching for the buttons of Seungwoo’s shirt. He unbuttons them one by one, an expanse of pale skin revealed as he goes. He circles a nipple and pinches it, repeating this for a few times before reaching to unbuckle the other’s belt, only to be stopped.

“I’m going to do it myself,” Seungwoo says, leaving the bed but staying near the frame. He removes his belt and trousers, leisurely undressing until every article of clothing is on the floor. His tattoos are uncovered one by one: his birthdate, a phrase, and a crescent moon with a flower— _Lilac_. His cock juts out, red and veiny, hard and glistening with precum.

“Lick it, baby,” Seungyoun commands, his voice low and velvety. “Play with it but don’t let him come.”

Wooseok proceeds to work. He darts out a tongue before parting his lips, suckling on the head, his hands finding purchase on Seungwoo’s hips. He bobs back and forth as he tries to take in as much he can, using his hands to stroke the base in time with his mouth. A pressure on his scalp causes him to moan, and without warning, the cock is rammed down his throat.

“You’re so good,” Seungwoo praises, groaning at the sight of Wooseok’s lips stretched around his cock. His hips are moving on their own now, thrusting incessantly, his hand using its grip to guide his movements. It reminds him of the night he saw him kneeling, and the pressure almost causes him to explode. 

However, Wooseok stills just in time, releasing him with a pop. Seungyoun did specify to not let him come. 

Seungwoo feels his abdomen contract from the sudden withdrawal. He stares at the leader who is lounging on the seat, stroking his stiff cock with a hand. In another time, he would’ve kneeled for him too—for minutes, for hours. Seungyoun only nods, and he takes it as permission. 

He returns to the bed, finding Wooseok in position already, face on the mattress and ass in the air. Seungwoo wants him supine, but just as the idea crosses his mind, he promptly shuts it down. After all, this is impersonal. There’s no need for them to gaze at each other while they fuck.

“You don’t need to prep me,” Wooseok says, breaking his reverie. Seungwoo decides against it anyway, pushing one, two, and three lubed fingers in until Wooseok is shaking from delight, until he is sobbing and begging for something bigger and thicker. Something that will tear him apart.

“I want your cock,” Wooseok cries, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Please, please fuck me.” _That’s more like it._

“Such a filthy thing. You’re so desperate for a dick,” Seungwoo teases, breaching the tight ring of muscle, pushing gently until he is buried to the hilt. He moves shallowly at first, giving Wooseok time to adjust, letting himself relish the feeling of being surrounded by warm heat. But he’s been holding back too, and it isn’t long until he starts to lose control, pulling out to the tip before slamming back in.

Sex offers a different kind of high, unlike drugs, unlike murder, unlike money and blood and sinning. It’s the most beautiful way to ruin and the kindest form of destruction. And as the other’s drenched hole squelches with his every plow, Seungwoo wonders why he denied himself this.

“Wooseok is too noisy. I have something in the drawer to shut him up. Top shelf,” Seungyoun chides harshly, his high tone matching their lewd moans. He has a direct view of the pair, a front row seat to gratification.

Seungwoo tries to follow the words despite his blurring senses. He searches for a cloth, a plug, or anything that can be used as a gag. But all he finds is a gun.

Sheer panic knocks the wind out of his lungs. It’s as if his veins are doused in ice and all he registers is shock. _It can’t be._ Hesitantly, his eyes dart back to Seungyoun, hoisting the Glock and asking for confirmation.

“Shove the barrel between his lips. You have to be careful though,” the leader grins, licking the tops of his teeth. “I don’t remember if it’s loaded or not.” _God, they’re all sick fucks._

He does as told, holding the gun as loosely as possible, slotting it in until the entire barrel disappears. Wooseok tenses around him which in return makes his dick twitch. The fear evaporates, and once again, depravity wins. He’s always been like this—wilting for pretty boys with pretty moans and pretty cocks.

“Don’t move yet,” Seungyoun warns, standing from his seat. His tattoos glisten under the light, red and yellow and cyanine. There are wounds littering his body, the fading scars a reminder of the life he leads. It hasn’t been long but Seungwoo is already under his spell, all willing and susceptive.

“Have you taken something up your ass?,” Seungyoun asks, and his nonchalant tone almost brings a chuckle out of Seungwoo. The thing is, after the office encounter, his nights were spent jerking off or clenching around something, preparing just in case. It wasn’t in vain.

When his own hole is filled, he’s convinced that a part of his brain has gone permanently haywire. He loses focus, synapses firing rapidly, arousal tugging him apart in two directions. Seungyoun begins to thrust, building up until he’s straight up ramming, his strength enough to set both of their paces. Seungwoo lets himself be taken along—his cock carving itself into Wooseok, his prostate abused over and over by Seungyoun. His mind swims, buoyed by pleasure.

Soon, the waves overflow, and he lets himself drown.

  
  
  
  


For someone who prefers to be alone, Wooseok has been going out a lot these days.

His disguise is well-planned, if he has to say so himself. The blonde hair and fur coat is far from his usual apparel, and the blue lenses turn him into a celebrity. He adds a hat as a final touch, sliding to a bar seat near evergreen leaves. To everyone else, he is just a flashy partygoer.

He is back in Orchid, full moon, mimosa in hand. The skies are clear tonight according to forecast, and it seems true from the crisp breeze. He is not here to enjoy the weather though, and he leans inconspicuously to eavesdrop on the conversation. A space between two branches enables him to peek at the two men.

“I have plans for him,” Seungyoun remarks, elbows propped on the table. He swirls his glass, making condensation trickle down its sides. “I’m ahead unlike what he thinks.”

Yohan throws his head back, his laugh a tinkling sound in the quiet. “Hyung, you’re something else,” he applauds.

Seungyoun waves a hand dismissively. “I have assigned men who will take care of him. Within the week, he’ll be executed,” he grimaces, wryly amused.

Wooseok takes a sip from his drink. He has long suspected that Seungyoun is aware. To which extent, he doesn’t know and he probably never will. What’s more crucial for him is to have an accurate time frame so he can adjust his plans around it. Since that’s covered tonight, it’s time for him to leave.

He chances a glance at Seungyoun. Somewhere in his body, buried underneath pretenses, is his heart, constricting. Finding a love like this always ruins him. But from the start, he was ready.

  
  
  
  


Miniature rainbows dance around his office, a result of sunlight hitting the glass prism deer. Seungyoun leans back on his armchair, absorbing the reports he just read. Acid forms in his gut, raging and blunt. But he knows better than to give in to emotions, and he tempers himself back to indifference.

Two folders lay on the desk. He scans them for the nth time, the numbers and letters unchanging. 

T-121 & T-122  
Job Type: Contract Kill  
Duration: Immediately

_This will be bloody._

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love can be elusive, a chance shot, a success or a miss. The bullet can be shallow or it can penetrate deeply. A victorious hit depends on weapons, the laws of physics and the skill of the person doing it. What people forget is that these three have one factor in common: luck.
> 
> Wooseok closes his eyes. It’s high time that he ran out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for this chapter: Blood and Gore

It’s a distant time, but Seungwoo remembers it like it happened yesterday—the stench of tobacco, the tick of the grandfather clock, the simmer of his blood with every second he had to be cordial. The brain embeds what it deems to be memorable, and he can recall that day down to its details. He was in this very room ten months ago. Nothing has changed, and in a way, nothing is also the same.

In the same chair but in a different suit, he compares the present to the pictures in his head. Two gold lamps are still on each side of the desk, and in place of the old carpet is a brand new parquet flooring. A coat rack stands by the door, full of hats in various shapes. The tiled fireplace steadily burns wood, and the crackling sound lulls one to comfort despite the sordidness of the space.

It takes a minute for the smoke to clear. He holds his breath, trying his best not to inhale any of it. The person he’s talking to is revealed subsequent to the disappearance of wisps. It’s Lee Dongwook—former leader of Rouge, a serial fraudster, the one who ordered the five-hit mission.

Seungwoo trembles from restrained anger, but he reels it in, aware that vengeance is not up to him.

“How are you?,” Dongwook asks, laying down his pipe on the ashtray. His dark circles are more evident, and Seungwoo almost scoffs at the irony of monsters like them having things that keep them awake. They’ve seen the frightening—have held it with their own hands even. Then again, maybe that’s the problem. Their nightmares have a reality to anchor themselves in.

“I’m fine,” he says, the fruit bowl catching his attention. It’s the only conventional food in Dongwook’s diet of uppers and nicotine.

“Are you prepared? We’re down to the last target.”

“Of course,” Seungwoo assures, tilting his head to the side. He won’t claim that Seungyoun trusts him fully, but he’s allowed to be near him at least. For him, that is enough. The closer he is, the surer the kill.

Dongwook reaches for a tangerine and props it on his palm, studying it as if it’s the most interesting object on the planet. He then peels it, removing the rind and pith carefully. “Once you’re done with this, you know what the rewards will be, right? Cash and freedom for Lilac,” he reminds.

Seungwoo may have shared his reasons to Wooseok, but none of those are actually true. Money will always find a way to burn itself out, and Dongwook’s death will just complicate things. More than the billions, it’s the promise of liberty that keeps him pushing. 

Dongwook made a pledge: he will admit to being the mastermind behind the job, but only after the hits are accomplished. At most, doing this will limit the scope to the both of them, which ultimately, is what Seungwoo aims for. Running from four organizations is a life nobody should lead. His failure put his members in the crossfire, and it’s his responsibility to set it right.

This is why he accepted. If he had a choice, he’d rather not see this particular client again.

The web is intricate. Seungwoo knows that by entangling himself, he is one step closer to a miserable demise. That the plan has misgivings, and if he’s being honest, it’s likely to fall through. But he has to grab the chance, no matter what the outcome may be. As long as it gets Lilac off the hook, he is willing to give his all.

“I have it all planned,” Dongwook continues, chewing a tangerine segment. “The groups will have difficulties functioning without their leaders, and that will buy me time in case they decide to retaliate. Which I’m sure they will do.”

Seungwoo shakes his head, disagreeing. “It doesn’t work that way. Once their bosses are dead, they will hunt you to the ends of Earth.”

“I don’t mind. Even if they execute me, I don’t mind,” Dongwook confesses with a bitter smile. “Should I tell you the motive behind that mission? I suppose it’s fair after what I made you go through.”

Assignments are not meant to be dissected. The risks are weighed based on limited information, and if a person chooses to take part, he must also endure the hell it comes with. Seungwoo has never asked questions about anything, but sometimes, curiosity does get to him.

Dongwook picks up the pipe, drawing in before breathing out a cloud of thick smoke. “Those five groups are indebted to me. All they have is due to Rouge.”

“You mean—”

“Seongcheol, Hojun, Joowon and Taehui were my members. Along with Song Yeonjin, they comprised my elites,” Dongwook says, staring blankly at a wall. “They followed every directive. Until they didn’t.”

“What?” _Fucking hell._ This is a revelation.

“One night, I came back from a business trip to find everything gone—valuables, my jewelry, the gang’s money. That’s why they were so insistent on throwing that goddamn party! They were trying to lure everyone out of the headquarters. They didn’t leave anything, Seungwoo. Not even a cent.” Dongwook’s voice breaks at the last word. His shoulders slump, still shaken by the treachery.

The news of Rouge’s dissolvement was publicized throughout the underground. It was a widespread back then, considering the size and influence of the group. There were speculations as to why it occurred, but no one suspected the members to be the problem.

“Fortunately, I had clients who paid over the weekend. I used that to fund Rouge in the next few weeks. But because the skilled ones had defected, most of the missions failed and we were hired less. In the fourth month, we barely had any jobs. The situation was becoming unmanageable, and I had to let my men go. Just like that, the organization was gone.” Dongwook pauses, dropping the half-eaten fruit back to the bowl. He exhales deeply, as if releasing the tension he accumulated. “When I heard they established their own units, I knew then that it was my resources they spent. Over the years, I’ve looked for people who were brave to go against them. You were the only one who relented.”

Disbelief is etched on Seungwoo’s face, the creases on his forehead becoming prominent. “I was being ambitious.”

“If that’s how you see it,” Dongwook says, clasping his hands on the desk. “I think it’s not bad to seek glory. Isn’t the underground a huge pissing contest anyway?”

Seungwoo racks his head for other topics, avoiding a dive into the workings of his brain. In the process, he suddenly recollects something. “But how does Seungyoun fit into this? He isn’t from Rouge, right?”

“Yeonjin previously led Ganymede, but he perished in a car accident before I was able to outline a scheme. His successor will do. That is Cho Seungyoun.”

“Isn’t it pointless? He’s not directly involved.”

“Are you having second thoughts?,” Dongwook asks, narrowing his eyes at him. 

“No,” Seungwoo denies, feeling clammy under the layers of his clothes. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place to express opinions.”

Dongwook nods once, looking a bit dubious. “The goal is to disturb the stable. With their bosses six feet under, the gangs will be severely crippled, especially for Ganymede who relies on Seungyoun. You said it yourself: he is their backbone. And that is what I want—for them to collapse. It’s already happening to the first four groups. You can’t lose your focus now.”

When Seungwoo was younger, he believed that there were things he’d never tolerate. His values were firm and rooted, and he was certain that he wouldn’t be swayed. But as he delved deeper into the underground, his perspective was altered. Everyone has a point when they’re given a chance to speak. Everything can become reasonable with the right circumstances. 

For tonight, Dongwook has justified himself. 

“You have a week left,” the other warns, taking another puff. He contains it in his mouth, savoring the flavor as it lingers over his palate. “Don’t trust anyone but yourself.”

Seungwoo rises from his seat. He walks to the door, the sole of his shoes tapping with every step. It’s not like he needs the reminder. Trust is founded on emotions; and emotions are fleeting, like the pity he feels for Dongwook, like a love unsaid or a budding fancy. There are stabler things he can rely on.

  
  
  
  


Wooseok darts to the second floor of the building, Glock in one hand and a grenade on the other. He hopes he won’t have to use the latter, but dire situations call for drastic actions.

There was a miscalculation. What was supposed to be single combat became a four-to-one, and his body is suffering as a consequence. His left arm seems to be fractured, and his leg is wounded from a bullet graze. A black ring surrounds his right eye, and bruises mar his white skin. Blots of red decorate his shirt, some splattered like a Jackson Pollock painting. 

The politician was terminated half an hour ago. His usual companion was beside him, and up to that point, it was exactly what Wooseok had been expecting. However, three additional guards jumped on him as soon as he pulled the trigger. This he didn’t anticipate, and it looped him into a chase that brought him to this abandoned structure. 

The last thing he heard before he ran was the staff scrambling for an ambulance. It is useless though—he gunned for the T-box, the part where the nose meets the forehead to form a ‘T’. That area guarantees an onset of flaccid paralysis in just seconds. If the Mayor ends up alive, then he must be friends with a deity.

Now, the pursuit is down to two. From his observation, the ones left are sloppier than their trained counterparts. They prefer physical attacks, and their gun skills are pretty average. This eases the burden on his part. He only has to search for a good hiding spot where he can make accurate aims.

A blunt force on his right side interrupts his thoughts. It knocks him down to the floor, his vision blacking out from the pain. If he was tentative about the state of his arm earlier, he isn’t now—he’s positive that it is broken. His mind starts to float, a sign that he’s about to lose consciousness. 

Wooseok rolls away to the farthest distance he can tolerate. Consequently, he fires his Glock, and the shot goes straight to the knee of the man who kicked him. The floor is damp from his blood and sweat, but he tries to stand anyway, taking advantage of the other’s momentary hysteria. Gritting his teeth, he stiffens his functional hand as he pushes himself up. When he’s upright, he fires again and the bullets land on the target’s chest and neck.

The man stops blinking. Four dead. One more to go.

A heap of sandbags appeal to him—they’re the perfect defense, the dense material resistant to a high velocity bullet. Wooseok hoists his Glock up as he advances towards the sacks, scouring for any movement. The floor is currently vacant. But since the building has a maximum of two stories, it won’t be long until he is reached.

In the meantime, he secures the pistol between his knees, indexing it before slotting in a fresh magazine. The used set falls to the concrete, tumbling a few times until it hits a wall. He pulls the slide and releases it, bringing the gun back to its firing position. Just in time, a pair of footsteps makes itself heard.

_Finally._

An uneven layer between the sandbags allows him to monitor the man’s approach. He moves to the sound of the other’s footsteps; his gait a bit unsteady but strong enough for another hit. The trigger glints under the fluorescent, waiting to be pulled. One-handedly, he aims, ignoring the strain of his muscles. 

And then, he clicks. Twice.

The silence is disrupted by the thud of the target’s body dropping to the ground. The way he plummets reminds Wooseok of a detached flower petal—free-falling and adrift. It’s so easy to take a life; sometimes, he feels as if he can’t do anything else. 

He scrunches his nose, detecting the beginnings of a blood spill. When a metallic tinge fills the air, he knows that his job is finished. He skips over the corpse and limps until he passes through the exit. Outside, a vehicle is waiting. Relief washes over him when he sees who the driver is.

Seungwoo sprints out of the car, his expression growing worried as he registers the younger’s injuries. “You should’ve called if you needed backup,” he scolds, assisting Wooseok to the passenger side.

“I’m okay,” Wooseok croaks, exhaustion crashing in. His eyelids are heavy, and the pain doubles without the rush of adrenaline. He could’ve called, yes, but it’s his instinct to work alone. He isn’t used to treating help as an option.

“That will temporarily put you out of commission,” Seungwoo says, referring to his fracture. He wears his seatbelt and starts the car, smoothly maneuvering out of the lot.

“I still have my right arm. I shoot better with it actually,” Wooseok answers, lifting said limb.

“Eh. I should tell Woodz that if he plans to send you out, he should let me accompany you for the time being.”

“How is he?”

“He’s the same. Don’t you meet often?,” Seungwoo asks, one eyebrow raised. 

“Not these days, no,” Wooseok replies, his voice a whisper. He can trace the neediness in his tone and he hopes it isn’t showing. “He’s busy.”

“That he is. So don’t fret.”

Wooseok glowers at Seungwoo, hating how correct he is. “Who says I am?”

“That wrinkle says you are,” Seungwoo chuckles, pushing a thumb to the middle of Wooseok’s brows.

To him, Seungwoo is reminiscent of the moon—a soft glow, a muted but significant presence, perpetually obscured unless it chooses to be visible. It’s the opposite to Seungyoun’s sun, which is blinding and impossible to miss. And Wooseok is only human; at the end of it all, he needs both day and night for his world to turn.

The car windows are left open; the night breeze a balm for his weary mind. He lets his eyes flutter shut, enjoying the wind against his skin. Seungwoo checks on him from time to time with a brush of his hair or a hand to his cheek. A jazz song plays on the radio, and before he knows it, he is fast asleep.

The next time he stirs, he is on his bed, already bandaged with his arm bundled in a cast. His head feels light, and he blinks rapidly in an attempt to wake himself up. The clock flashes 4:13 AM—six hours after the conclusion of his task. He looks at the nightstand, expecting a bunch of blooms or a card with two faces. 

There is nothing. There has been nothing for weeks. The last flower he received is on the vase, dry and wilted. His body is tender, but this is a different kind of ache. 

Something has changed. With that realization, something inside him breaks.

  
  
  
  


Seungyoun presses 73 with the knuckle of his index finger. He tilts his head backwards, watching the rapid ascent of the numbers on the indicator display. There are sixty-eight floors left as of the moment. He hums a popular song to fill in the quiet.

“You seem to be in a good mood,” Seungwoo remarks, looking at him through the mirror.

“It’s because I’m meeting Yohan,” Seungyoun says, examining their reflections. Both of them are wearing black, the lack of color drab for a party setting. 

“You’re close to him, no?”

“He is a dongsaeng whom I value. He goes to me for advice, and I try my best to accommodate him.” Seungyoun returns his gaze to the indicator display. _Tenth floor._

“So you’re his mentor then,” Seungwoo points out.

Seungyoun purses his lips, as if thinking. “Hm. I’d rather call it helping.”

“How did you become friends?” Seungwoo turns to him, his earring swaying with the action. He is dashing as always—the right mix of cool and deadly. Seungyoun would be the first to vouch for his attractiveness. After all, he’s sleeping with him.

Together with Wooseok, they spiral down a rapture of uninhibited indulgence; a hedonism where every need is fulfilled and all objects are fair game. Pleasure is a great blinder, and if he was made of weaker stuff, he would do anything to keep it in his grasp.

But he isn’t. He may let his toes dip for a while, but he will never put his entire leg in.

Instead of responding, he raises another query of his own: “Did you wear it?”

“What?”

“The plug. Are you wearing it?”

“Oh.” Seungwoo blushes, touching the side of his neck before nodding. “I am.”

Seungyoun smirks mischievously, moving closer to place a hand on Seungwoo’s back. “Good boy.” He brings the remote out of his suit pocket and dials it to the highest setting.

“Oh shit,” Seungwoo rasps. He doubles over, his forehead sinking on Seungyoun’s shoulder. 

“You like this, don’t you? When you’re not filling holes, you’d rather have your own stuffed.”

“Yes. Oh god, yes.”

“Should I feed you later? Fuck your mouth until you’re gagging?,” Seungyoun hisses, licking the shell of Seungwoo’s ear. He inches his hand lower until it brushes the other’s butt, parting it and tapping the end of the plug with a finger. He can feel it vibrating despite the layers of clothes.

The elevator door opens. Seungyoun straightens his posture and walks out; Seungwoo trailing shortly after him. They get off to this—teasing each other until one is begging.

A burly man welcomes them, bowing to Seungyoun in esteem. Night has properly descended over Seoul, and the stars are a sparkling hue. Lively music, penthouse views, gyrating bodies. _Orchid._ Strangely, he has never liked the place.

They proceed to the farthest corner of the bar. Unsurprisingly, Yohan is already present, the tails of his coat flapping with the wind. His eyes crinkle as soon as he spots them and he opens his arms for a hug.

“Hyung!”

“Yohan-ah,” Seungyoun greets, reciprocating the gesture. He is not a fan of loud and bright spaces, but this is where Yohan conducts his appointments. It’s the safest area since he owns the hotel and, by extension, Orchid itself.

“Have anything you want. It’s my treat,” Yohan says, settling back on his chair. “We have Seungwoo again, I see.”

Seungwoo dips his chin, a gentle smile on his lips. His body is relaxed, as if there is nothing buried in him. “Good evening, Yohan-ssi.”

“He’s with me these days. Wooseok is still recuperating,” Seungyoun explains, choosing the seat nearest to the pool.

“Yeah, I heard. How is he?,” Yohan asks, lighting a cigarette. Unlike a few uncouth bosses, he blows the smoke to the side, avoiding Seungyoun’s and Seungwoo’s faces.

“It’s a non-displaced fracture, fortunately. According to our doctor, healing may take eight weeks.” Yohan offers him a smoke, but Seungyoun declines.

“That’s quite long. What happened?” 

A waitress dumps their orders on the table. Seungyoun reaches for his, swirling the round ice cube so it stays chilled. “He was overwhelmed. For some reason, the Mayor increased his security to four men on that specific night. Wooseok had to do five hits instead of two.”

Yohan whistles, visibly impressed. “Holy shit. You have monsters in your arsenal, I swear.”

“It’s what keeps Ganymede afloat,” Seungyoun shrugs, taking a sip of his whiskey. It’s true. Pussyfooting won’t get him anywhere.

If he is to be asked, there is nothing special about what he does. People regard him as some sort of a god, but all he possesses are strategy and ruthlessness. There undoubtedly are hundreds who have better skills than him: who are stronger, who are sharper, who can kill even in their sleep. _No,_ the success of Ganymede lies within the members. That’s why it’s crucial to ensure their loyalty—that none of them have ulterior motives.

And if they do, then that is where he comes in.

“Have you visited the grave?,” he questions, lifting a finger to signal the bartender for another glass. Today is an important day for Yohan. It’s been eleven months since the death of his father.

“Yes, I went this morning,” Yohan replies, staring into space. He’s affected by it up to now, his smiles not reaching his eyes.

Seungyoun pats the younger’s shoulder. Death is something he’s intimate with, but some do hit differently than others. “I’m sure he is proud of you. You’re doing well.”

“I hope so. I don’t even know anything about this. It was his world in the first place.” Yohan extinguishes his cigarette, crushing it into the crystal ashtray beside him. “If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve messed up the gang.”

“Yohan-ssi, your father was in the mafia business too?,” Seungwoo politely asks. His beer is barely touched, its coaster wet from moisture.

Yohan gazes at Seungyoun meaningfully. At last, it’s time to scare the rats back into their dens.

Seungyoun’s mouth curls into a terrifying grin, excited for what’s next. “Oh, I was too distracted to answer earlier,” he cuts in. “Yohan’s father was Kim Taehui from the now-defunct Carbon. Hare is a relaunch.”

He can practically smell the fear wafting off Seungwoo. Another whiskey arrives, and he passes it to him, winking. There is something gratifying about luring people into believing that they’ve manipulated him. He lives for the look on their faces when they realize how wrong they have been. 

In the short time he’s surveyed him, he already found his weakness—Seungwoo is a person who wears his heart on the sleeve. Exploiting it was child’s play.

Nevertheless, tonight is not the end for anyone. They are here for Yohan, to offer solace and some harmless fun. His manners shouldn’t be mistaken though: there will definitely be a reckoning.

  
  
  
  


The headlights of his AMG disclose the number of passengers inside the oncoming car. It would’ve been three casualties if he didn’t swerve in time—four, if he’s included. His heart is about to leap out of his chest. Still, he forces himself to focus ahead, not wanting another near-collision.

His mind is consumed by a myriad of questions. If Yohan is the son of Kim Taehui, then does he know that Seungwoo is his father’s killer? Is Dongwook aware of this connection? Did Wooseok expose him? Most importantly, where is Seungyoun in this? If he’s informed, why isn’t he doing anything?

Seungwoo groans. Hiding is second nature to him. He is good at making himself inconspicuous, at learning which corners conceal him best. His gut is attuned to the slightest of dangers. What he can’t understand is: how the fuck did he miss all of these?

He steps on the accelerator firmly, intent on chasing answers. And he will get them, starting with the one that’s easiest to obtain. He navigates a familiar street, going straight until he stumbles on a dead end. A hideous building is situated on his left. The streetlight flickers ominously, as if conveying that something terrible is about to occur.

The apartment complex itself is shabby. From its appearance alone, one won’t suspect that a former mafia leader resides in it. Dirt and grime cover half of the walls, an indication that it isn’t maintained. An uneven walkway leads to the entrance, grass peeking between the slats. It's ideal; the perfect disguise for Dongwook who wants to fade into the background.

Seungwoo presses the bell to the unit—once, twice, six times. No response. He tries again, incorporating a knock. However, there is no reply. 

The brain embeds what it deems to be memorable, and he suddenly recalls how he felt on that day. Nineteen months ago, he was in a similar situation: searching for Dongwook only to discover that he transferred to a new residence. He feels his stomach drop, the sting of betrayal coursing every strand of his veins. He kicks the door in frustration. To his surprise, it springs open. 

And that is never a good sign.

He holds his Sig up as he slithers through the gap, keeping his eyes peeled for an ambush. The outside filth is a sham, and what greets him is a luxurious pad. The same gold lamps, the same coat rack with hats, the same damn fireplace bereft of wood. A book is laid on the desk, turned to the last read page. Several bottles of medicine line the shelf, ranging from methaqualone to benzodiazepines. 

The place is lived-in. Dongwook’s clothes are strewn around, his wallet still inside the pocket of a shirt. That removes the assumption of him changing addresses. It can only be either of two things: he’s out or he was taken involuntarily. When an hour passes without any trace of him, Seungwoo already knows what it is.

Since there is nothing to gain here, he might as well go somewhere else. He inputs a number into his phone. After four rings, the call is picked up.

“Wooseok, where are you?”

  
  
  
  


“So what you’re telling me is that you lied,” Wooseok says, chewing a piece of meat. “That you’re doing it for us and not some money or revenge plot.”

“Correct.” Seungwoo sticks his fork to a potato, blowing on it before taking a bite.

The conference area smells of galbi jjim. Upon hearing Seungwoo’s distressed voice, Wooseok opted to have some food delivered. On the table is a small feast of short ribs and kimbap. They are seated in front of each other, surrounded by art displays.

From Rouge to Lee Dongwook to Kim Taehui, Seungwoo didn’t leave any subject untouched. He divulged everything, which is unusual for someone as guarded as him. As he relays the latest about Dongwook’s disappearance, Wooseok draws a conclusion.

He puts his chopsticks down. This is his expertise—being brutal and pissed. “Underestimating is not your problem. It’s your goddamn hero complex.”

Seungwoo stops in the middle of eating, bewildered by the sudden barb. “It’s not that. I just want to fix my wrongs.”

“That’s exactly it,” Wooseok presses on, absentmindedly touching the fabric of his cast. “You think you can barge in, swoop us up from the flames and call it a day. Newsflash: it doesn’t work like that.”

“Where is this coming from? I thought you’d be—” If Seungwoo was confused before, he is now downright offended.

Wooseok laughs mirthlessly, the sound grating even to his own ears. “Happy? Thankful? From what I’m seeing, this is another way of carrying out the good leader image you’re so obsessed with. Is a good leader fair and indomitable?”

“Hey, I never thought of it that way.”

“The members are in trouble? Ding, the good leader is here to save them!”

“Stop it, Wooseok.”

“No. Is this because you want to sleep peacefully at night? To appease your beaten ego and negate your burdens?”

Seungwoo slams a fist on the table, a bit of water tipping over their glasses. “Enough.”

“This is why your plans deteriorate. You vindicate your actions too much. We’re in the underground. Whatever our motivations are, we are criminals, point-blank.” There are people who are willing to be demons, but with reservations. To Wooseok, it’s a mere illusion to appear mightier and more benevolent than others.

“I get it, okay. But I was also honest with my purpose to help. People are in deep shit because of me. Can’t I rectify that?,” Seungwoo laments, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re too kind for this place, Seungwoo. It worries me,” Wooseok admits. He takes the other’s hand, squeezing it gently. “We won’t benefit from mercy.”

“Will you believe me if I say that I almost abandoned the mission just because I’m becoming fond of Seungyoun? Just because you’re with me again? I must be the stupidest, really.”

Somehow, Wooseok understands the sentiment. When Lilac vanished, a part of him was relieved because it meant the postponement of his job. Being evil is not that different from being spurred by an intense feeling; from doing things out of love, madness, euphoria or desperation. 

He says what he thinks is the most useful. “The heart is a traitorous organ. Don’t trust it.”

Seungwoo doesn’t answer. Instead, he returns to his meal. The quiet is overbearing; the atmosphere thick with matters that are unfurling incessantly.

After a few minutes, Wooseok proposes an idea. “We can rummage through the files inside the office. If your name is in the folders, it’s safe to say that you’ve been found out.”

Seungwoo waves both of his hands, refusing. “Won’t that put you at risk?”

“That’s why we should do it while Seungyoun is out. Come on, I have a key,” Wooseok urges, scrambling to the top floor of the mansion.

This room has been a witness to a multitude of Wooseok’s emotions—joy, anxiety, ire, fear. Today, it will see something new: doubt. His ploy is breaking, and suddenly, nothing is what it seems to be.

A gray metal cabinet is located beside the gigantic bookshelf. He pulls the second drawer, revealing a thick stack of brown folders. They’re arranged in descending order, and the topmost number is T-122. These are the contract kills of Ganymede from Target 1 to Target 122.

“Should we start from T-116 Lee Sangmin?”

“Yeah, he’s my last hit,” Seungwoo answers, standing beside him.

“Okay. Let’s do this.” Wooseok hauls all of the folders from T-116 onwards and places them on the desk. As expected, Lee Sangmin corresponds to the first file. The succeeding one stuns them however.

“T-117 is Lee Jinhyuk? Wasn’t he the suspected killer of Sejin?,” Wooseok asks, eyes as wide as saucers.

“What?” Seungwoo grabs the folder, scanning the provided information. “Yes, this is him. I thought—”

“Apparently, we thought incorrectly,” Wooseok says, bringing out the next three numbers. He has a bad hunch about this. “We’ll do multiple at a time so we can finish this the soonest.”

T-119 is Mayor Ok Hyunbin, the assignment which resulted in Wooseok’s fractured arm.

T-118 is Jang Geunsoo and T-120 is Park Daeho. They were members of Lilac.

“Fuck!” Seungwoo loses his balance and collapses to the floor, reeling from the gravity of what was just revealed. Seungyoun is aware of Lilac. Of everything, most probably.

When the last two files are opened, Wooseok isn’t surprised by the contents anymore.

T-121 Han Seungwoo   
T-122 Kim Wooseok  
(Last two members of Lilac)

He was a fool for thinking that love would solve anything.

  
  
  
  


Seoul is different at night. It’s hungrier and a whole lot bolder. Something about the dark makes people give in to their basest desires. Seungyoun feels his nerves crackling, thrilled by the knowledge that his orchestration has reached its climax.

If there’s one thing people around him would say, it’s to never make him an opponent. He isn’t good with weapons, but he is an expert in tricks. He has no problems with using everyone as pawns—hell, he doesn’t even mind becoming one himself. There are no lengths he won’t go to in order to win.

“Where are we going?,” Lee Dongwook asks, shifting in his seat. He looks like he’s about to shit his pants and it fills Seungyoun with glee.

“Don’t you think it’s time for everyone to talk?,” he answers. “I’m tired of going around. The ruse has to end at some point.”

“Will you kill me when it’s over?”

Seungyoun shrugs. “I’ll let you know. Believe it or not, I don’t like keeping people in the dark.” 

The Ferrari stops in front of a warehouse; the same building where the last transaction between Ganymede and Hare took place. It wasn’t intentional on his part, but now that he noticed it, the location is fitting as tonight will be the conclusion of another deal. This is the most extensive mission he’s accepted. At last, it’s about to end.

He steps out of the car. The wind is ravenous, devouring everything it comes into contact with. In the distance is a cell site tower, its red light a constant dot in the sky. An airplane flies overhead, and he wonders how it is to be free; to be away from the clutches of this wretched place.

The moon is hidden. Sadly, it won’t witness the doom he’s about to instigate.

“Hyung! You’re early,” Yohan says, ushering him indoors. The young and bubbly person is gone, and in place is a leader with his hair up, cold-blooded and lethal. It’s easy to forget that Yohan is a drug kingpin, but he can’t procure all that narcotics if he isn’t the least bit intimidating.

“There wasn’t any traffic.” Seungyoun scans the site—barren, menacing and gray all over. Pieces of junk litter the floor, some being metal pieces that have fallen from the roof. No windows grace the walls, and the only source of light is a bulb hanging by a cord. At the center are three chairs with slots big enough for any kind of string. _Perfect._ This is just to his liking.

A Ganymede member drags Dongwook inside, strapping him into one of the wooden chairs. He is down to his shirt and trousers, and his limbs are securely tied by ropes. His other possessions are discarded into a pile, ready to be burned later. He had no reaction throughout the entire process which, to Seungyoun, is a bit irritating. The other has no business acting like the control is his. Thus, Seungyoun raises a pinky finger, and the nail of Dongwook’s second toe is clawed off.

Dongwook shrieks, the sound piercing the air.

“I had to know if you’re still with us,” Seungwoo says, watching blood ooze out of the injury. “But because your scream wasn’t loud enough, I have to check once more.” He raises his finger again, and this time, it’s the nail of Dongwook’s big toe that’s pulled—more surface area, more suffering.

It gives Seungyoun what he wants: a screech of pure agony. Dongwook slumps forward, his chest heaving from the intensity of his breaths.

Seungyoun turns to one of his men. “Send this address to Wooseok. Tell him to come here and bring Seungwoo along,” he instructs.

The die is cast. Now, all he has to do is wait.

  
  
  
  


It’s been a while since he last went unarmed. In their world, going out without a gun is equivalent to a death wish. Seungwoo feels incomplete, but insisting on his Sig will be futile. According to Wooseok, the warehouse has one entry which, for sure, is patrolled by a number of members. Since the objective appears to be an execution, weapons will be obviously blocked.

The news of his impending death doesn’t bother him at all. He’s disoriented actually, starting from when he learned that there’s only the two of them left. Lilac is gone; its members assassinated one after another. Seungwoo adjusted his entire life for this mission. Now that it’s crumbling, he feels as if he’s disintegrating as well. 

The underground is cruel—a never-ending cycle of violence. One death is usually an onset for many. He and Wooseok will just be another statistic; another caught prey, another trophy. This is how it works, the way this world revolves.

What was he fighting for all along?

It is widely believed that the totality of a person’s life history flashes to him during near-death experiences. There is some truth to it, from the way he’s thinking about the people he met. Try as he might, he can’t bring himself to regret. Even Seungyoun. The bastard can probably charm his way up to heaven.

But there are words that Seungwoo must unload, or else he’ll be laden with rue.

“You said something earlier,” he starts, gazing at the road ahead. In the time they’ve known each other, Wooseok has always been the stronger between them. “That one shouldn’t trust the heart because it is a traitorous organ. But do we have a choice?”

Wooseok faces him slightly, the other half of his face obscured by shadows. “What do you mean?”

“I was set on the belief that in this place, trust was the last thing that’s feasible. Even so, it didn’t work.” Seungwoo's inner monologue was simple and he repeated it to himself over the years: don’t trust, don’t hesitate, don’t leave without a gun, don’t fall in love.

And he, a stubborn piece of shit, did all four.

“I told you, you’re too kind.” Wooseok tries to reach for Seungwoo’s hand, only to wince from discomfort. His arm isn’t healed yet.

Seungwoo notices the effort though so he bridges the gap himself. He reaches for Wooseok’s right hand instead, interlocking their fingers together and resting it above the gear stick. “It’s not kindness,” he rebukes. “It’s love. And I’m not just talking about romantic love. I cared for Lilac a lot.”

A few seconds pass by without any songs from the radio or sentences from their mouths. Seungwoo seizes the lull in conversation before he loses his courage.

“I intended to confess to you after the Ganymede mission,” he admits, his throat about to burst. “But the fourth hit failed, and things went to hell. Had I known it would take this long to see you again, I would’ve just said it back then.” He smiles bitterly, the ache weighing heavily on his chest.

Wooseok softens, his eyes brimming with tears. “Because you’re being honest, I will be too. If you did, I would’ve responded positively.” He pauses, blinking rapidly to prevent them from falling. “And I still would.”

“Look at us,” Seungwoo remarks, shaking his head. “Telling ourselves not to have a heart but letting two people in at the same time.”

Wooseok chuckles, his cheeks glistening under the streetlights. “We’re so dumb. But if there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s that Seungyoun adored us too. To what ferocity, I have no idea. I’m not one to measure affection, but the way he looks at us can’t be faked.”

Seungwoo doesn’t answer. Instead, he stares at Wooseok, tracing the variances a period of almost two years had made. His jaw is sharper, and his cheeks are more sunken. There is an edge to his gaze that is gained from being acquainted with darkness. Everything else is the same. Still pretty and still brilliant, but as always, Seungwoo keeps those to himself.

The warehouse comes into view. They stop five meters away from the site, giving themselves a chance to breathe. Ah, this is it. The culmination of a 19-month old unfinished assignment.

“Do you feel like dying today?,” Seungwoo jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’m always ready for anything.” Wooseok removes his hand from Seungwoo’s grip and gets out of the vehicle.

No matter where they are, it’s always the same scene. Even at the end, he looks on as Wooseok walks away from him.

  
  
  
  


The rope is tightly wound around his ankles, chafing it and not permitting even a millimeter of movement. As a result, his feet are cold and tingly—a symptom of poor blood circulation. His abdomen is bound, and he can’t breathe properly because his ribs are too compressed. But they left his fracture alone, at least. His hands are free, unlike the two beside him.

He notices Yohan first, poles apart from his youthful persona. The black suit molds to the planes of his body, and his earrings lend him a savagery he usually doesn’t have. He is perched behind Seungyoun, silently observing. So he is a part of the plan. All along, he acted like he was in the palm of Wooseok’s hand.

Members are scattered around the place. They are holding shotguns and AK-47s, primed to crush any escape attempt. A few of them he recognizes, like Hangyul and Sunyoul. Are they speculating on why he’s here?

And then there’s Seungyoun. 

Dangerous is not enough of a word to describe him. His grin is sinister, and his gaze is a piercing knife on its own. His silver rings shine under the lackluster light, along with the pistol in his grip. He is godly; surrounded by men who will bow to his every whim. The rascal is still handsome, even when he looks every bit the devil incarnate he is.

“Where should we start?,” Seungyoun asks, stopping in front of Seungwoo. It’s a sincere question as there is a lot to unpack.

The older is calm, not missing a beat before answering. “Wherever you want.”

Seungyoun hums, facing the three fully. “Hn. Let’s begin nineteen months ago when Carbon foiled your plans.”

_Finally._

“When the first three bosses died in succession, Kim Taehui had a suspicion that he was next. After all, the heads had something in common—they were all a part of Rouge. It so happened that someone was simultaneously applying to be a Carbon member. He had a hunch that it was a planted hitman, and he accepted him immediately to be able to track him.”

“Even then, we never stood a chance,” a pallid man remarks. This must be Lee Dongwook. His right eye is shut, and his feet are mangled and bloody. 

“It turns out that they were right. It was Kim Kookheon, a Lilac member. They tried to get information out of him, but an unforeseen obstacle came up: Kookheon had no idea about your faces. Which is weird, even as I’m saying it now,” Seungyoun comments, amused at the idea of a group wearing masks. “Still, he was able to give the group’s name and that was vital. Taehui exhausted his means to uncover everything about Lilac.”

“Was he successful?” Seungwoo asks, lifting his head to look at Seungyoun.

“Yeah. He had all of your names. But he halted the pursuit midway, thinking the threat was gone. Talks about your dissolvement were prevalent, and for him, it was enough confirmation that it was over,” Seungwoo pauses, inhaling deeply. “However, he was wrong. Someone was waiting in the shadows, and eleven months ago, it made itself known. Han Seungwoo, you were that person, right?”

The leader is barely finished with his question when Yohan swoops in and punches Seungwoo squarely on the face. It smashes his nose and knocks two of his front teeth out, causing him to bleed.

“Fucking admit it!,” Yohan yells, landing more punches. “I’ll kill you myself, you fucker!”

Seungwoo doesn’t respond. Or rather, he can’t. The onslaught of blows is incessant, and Yohan seems intent on splitting his knuckles. Seungwoo’s face is half-crimson, his blood gushing out like a faucet.

Seungyoun wrenches the younger backwards. “Yohan-ah,” he soothes, patting Yohan’s head. “Let hyung settle this, okay?” This calms Yohan down and he moves back to his initial place.

“Where was I? Eleven months ago, Kim Taehui was murdered. Because we were close, he often shared intel about Lilac. Ganymede’s former leader was Song Yeonjin, another Rouge member, and Taehui-hyung believed it was enough reason to relentlessly warn me to stay alert. He believed that Lee Dongwook was the mastermind of the plan as a form of revenge. At the time of his death, I had the name and the whereabouts of every Lilac member investigated. By that time, there were only 15 of you left.”

Wooseok is sure that Lilac had thirty members during that mission. This only means that Taehui was able to eliminate half, as if he was just playing darts.

“And I found him—Lee Dongwook, residing in a moldy, dilapidated building,” Seungyoun continues, looking at said man in question. Dongwook hangs his head guiltily, the corners of his mouth downturned. “Inside the confines of his room, he admitted that he was the one behind the hits. He laid out the entire blueprint and confirmed that I was supposed to be next. But I referred to the member list, and no name was familiar. The investigation report was delivered to me that night, however, and I discovered that Kim Wooseok was Kim Wooshin. He entered Ganymede around the same time as Kookheon infiltrated Carbon.”

Wooseok meets the leader’s stare head-on. His body is tender, but this is a different kind of pain. 

“At first, I was angry to the point of wanting to kill him. My mind was so filled with rage, and I ended up throwing bottles and glasses. I liked him already, you see,” Seungyoun says, smiling sardonically. “It’s like that when you have feelings for someone, no? I defended him even from myself—that if he was in Ganymede for months already and nothing was still happening, maybe his mission was really over.”

He props a chair backwards and sits on it, his arms positioned on the backrest. “Still, I had to find a way to make Han Seungwoo show himself. He was disclosed as the hitman for Taehui-hyung, and not going after him would be betraying a person who was like a family member to me. I went back to Dongwook and hatched a plan. In exchange for one billion won, he had to send Seungwoo to Ganymede.”

“I saw his name on the application forms. Because I was aware of their connection, I assigned the screening to Wooseok, fully knowing that he would accept his former leader. And I was correct. The rest, as they say, is history,” Seungyoun wraps up, smug about the complexity of his tactic.

And it is. It’s elaborate and truly a piece of work. However, it doesn't end there yet.

Seungwoo spits out a cloudy liquid, most likely a mix of his blood and saliva. “What about the other hits?”

“What’s that?,” Seungyoun asks, raising a brow.

“Lee Jinhyuk was in one of your folders. A few of our members too.”

“Ah, you looked through them? Honestly, I was waiting for you to do so. I suppose you only saw the most recent ones though. The whole Sejin thing was arranged by me.”

Seungwoo’s eyes bulge out. “Are you—”

“Yes. I had him terminated. His friendship with you was quite evident, and killing him would provide me the perfect grounds to establish some sort of bond with you. And it worked. Don’t we fancy each other?,” Seungyoun teases.

“You sick fuck!,” Seungwoo condemns.

Seungyoun resumes talking, unperturbed. “Lee Jinhyuk had no role except to take the fall for Sejin’s death. But as you can see, everything was schemed. When you went to Orchid together, it was for Yohan to confirm your identity.” He points to Yohan who is quiet at the back. “He saw you that day, you know. You ran into an alley after pulling the trigger. He was recovering from a ligament injury that time so he wasn’t able to chase you.”

Nobody is reacting, astonished by every single facet of the strategy. 

“And Song Yuvin… he is new to loansharking. That’s why he has no knowledge about laundering money. Do you want to know what his former job is?,” Seungyoun questions, not really waiting for an answer. “He was a private investigator. It was him who unearthed Lilac’s information.”

“Lastly, the assassination of Lilac members is a mission tasked to Ganymede by four groups—Vice, Stone, Forum and Hare. A favorable outcome will grant me the rights to all of the resources of the first three groups, including the leadership position. Hare will also give me a fair share of its earnings. Both of you are the last ones remaining. After tonight, Ganymede will have four subsidiary groups under its belt.”

It’s a convoluted history, and after multiple twists, Wooseok can only ponder about one thing: they’ve all been played by one person—Cho Seungyoun. This is a world he crafted, and they fell for it hook, line and sinker. It’s like being shown an ocean and trying to swim, only to find out that it’s wider and darker than he thinks.

Nevertheless, Wooseok loves him. It’s twisted, but he will still do everything for him. Maybe it’s only the vile who can love such monsters.

Since it’s the last time, he pours his emotions out. “I thought it was possible that you’d choose your heart.”

Seungyoun stands from his seat and approaches Wooseok’s chair. “Wooseok-ah,“ he says, making eye contact with him. “You know that love isn’t for people like me. All I do is destroy pretty things. I don’t leave flowers alone. I pick them up and watch them wilt.”

“Still, I hoped.”

“When you proposed a three-way relationship with Seungwoo, I knew that was your intent. And I won’t deny that it almost persuaded me. It wasn’t difficult to adore you two,” Seungyoun says, glancing at Seungwoo as well. “But there are things that are asked of me, and love isn’t one of them.”

Love can be elusive, a chance shot, a success or a miss. The bullet can be shallow or it can penetrate deeply. A victorious hit depends on weapons, the laws of physics and the skill of the person doing it. What people forget is that these three have one factor in common: _luck._

Wooseok closes his eyes. It’s high time that he ran out of it.

  
  
  
  


There are three constants in Seungyoun’s life: money, brutality and men who are ordered to kill him. Two of said men are before him, and it doesn’t give him satisfaction to see them squirming.

“I may have created this all,” he remarks, ignoring the burning in his eyes. “But there were things I couldn’t control—your reactions and the things you made me feel.”

He digs both of his guns deeper into their temples. The room is silent save for his heart, beating and pumping and shattering. Finding a love like this always ruins him, but out of habit, he clung on, even though he knew it was fleeting.

The sun is peeking over the horizon. In a few, Seoul will be bathed in gold. People will go on with their lives, none the wiser about the secrets of the night. Seungyoun wonders how it is to thrive in light and what sacrifices will the dark force him to make next. 

“I don’t want you to have the burden of killing somebody you love,” he says, curling his indexes around both triggers. “I’ll carry it for you instead.”

And so, he clicks.

  
  
  
  


_(fourteen months ago)_

_“Why is the garden just leaves?”_

_“Come again,” Seungyoun said, laying his glasses on the desk._

_Wooseok pursed his lips. “When you told me the mansion had a garden, I expected flowers.”_

_“Oh, make a list of the ones you want to see and I’ll have them planted.”_

_“Really?,” Wooseok asked, mouth hanging in surprise. “I’ll go ahead then.” He rushed out of the office._

_Three months later, a flower bud opened up and bloomed into a poppy._

  
  
  
  


_(two weeks ago)_

_“It’s weird,” Seungwoo said, propping back on the bed. “I feel so content these days.”_

_Seungyoun carded his fingers through Seungwoo’s hair. “How so?”_

_The other looked at him reverently. “Like everything is right. Like this is where I’m supposed to be.”_

_In the deepest corners of Seungyoun’s hardened heart, he felt the same._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!
> 
> so as you know, my fics tend to be on the shorter side and they mostly range from 1-3k words. it’s what my work allows me to produce as i usually write in between work breaks or before going to sleep. that isn’t much time to be honest hh. however, this quarantine gave me leeway to focus on writing so i tried making something that’s detailed and fleshed out. i initially planned son of a gun to be a oneshot, then it became 3 chapters, and now we’re here 5/5. at 22k, this is officially my longest fic so far. i hope it wasn’t too boring ;__;
> 
> also, the heart is a lonely satellite is not abandoned! i’ll continue it. i just need to rest my brain. it’s a research-heavy story so i’ll need all the sleep i can get hhh
> 
> anyway, i hope you’re doing well :) thank you so much for still being here!


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